


The Musician's Guardian

by Apikale



Category: Milo Murphy's Law
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heaven, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Other, arguably stalker behavior, but it gets reversed, but not too slow, kinda slow burn, limited time travel, technically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 07:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19246324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apikale/pseuds/Apikale
Summary: In which Dakota is literally Cavendish's guardian angel, and gets more than he bargained for.





	1. The New Guy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omgitsemeraldstar](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=omgitsemeraldstar).



> 1) I must give credit where credit is due. I saw this picture on DeviantArt and it got me thinking, and that's where this story came from. https://www.deviantart.com/omgitsemeraldstar
> 
> 2) This is squarely a MML fic, but I think some of the mechanics subconsciously seeped in from other sources, namely "Life is Strange" for the "rewind" time travel mechanism, "The Good Place" for the bureaucracy of the afterlife, and "Supernatural" for the dynamic of an angel falling for a human. You don't need to be familiar with any of the above franchises for this story to make sense, but if you are you'll probably see what I mean.
> 
> 3) Point of clarification--while it may seem obvious to some, this story does not at all model the afterlife of any established world religion, let alone my own. This depiction of angels and heaven is purely fanciful, and I came up with my own rules for how everything works. Don't assume I mean anything on a deeper theological level. This is a love story, not a doctrinal treatise. As such, it should also be noted that in this universe, there isn't really a God or gods, just a kind of non-sentient underlying benevolent energy in the universe. Likewise, there isn't a Satan-equivalent here either.
> 
> 4) Don't worry about Milo, Melissa, and Zack--those kids lived a good long life. It's just that they were born in the early 2000s, and this story takes place in the 2160s, so of course they'd be in heaven by this point. Note that while there are similarities in the timelines, humans do not at any point invent time travel in this universe, hence why Cavendish is a pianist instead of an agent.

                “Wings, check.  Halo, check.  Diploma… check!”  Dakota raised the plaque in victory as his friends congratulated him.

                “So that’s it?  You finally graduated?” Melissa asked as they entered The Cronus Donut, a café popular with angels and mortals alike.

                “Yep!  After ten thousand years, I am officially certified for duty in the Bureau of Guardianship.  Tomorrow I get my first assignment!”

                “Table for four, please,” Milo told Amanda, the owner and manager of the shop.  Not many angels took readily to business ownership the way mortals, especially humans, were fond of, but for some reason Amanda found the hustle-and-bustle soothing.  Well, if that was what made her happy, Dakota was happy for her.

                “Anything for you, cupcake!” she said with a flirtatious wink, making Milo smile and blush just a tiny bit.  His friend Zack’s eyes darted quickly around the restaurant, but nobody else was really paying attention, fortunately.  Friendships between angels and mortals in the afterlife, like Dakota’s with Milo, Melissa, and Zack, were all well and good, but relationships?  It was a taboo—not quite so egregious as if, say, an angel were to fall in love with a mortal who was still living, mind you, but serious enough that it wasn’t really talked about.  There were rumors about Milo and Amanda’s deviance being caught in the act now and then, resulting in Amanda losing a few feathers as punishment, but fortunately that was the extent of it.  Milo didn’t face any repercussions, this being his eternal reward after all, and Amanda’s plucked plumage would grow back in time.

                “So you’re literally a guardian angel now?” Melissa asked as they gathered in a booth.

                Dakota nodded as a plate of iced buns was placed in front of them.

                “What does that entail?”

                “Well, you see,” Dakota began, plucking a cherry off the top of one of the buns.  “We get these readouts from the Bureau of Prophecy.  It’s not, like, an exhaustive list of every little thing that’s supposed to happen in your life, but it does have everyone’s name and the date and time they’re supposed to die on it, so, well, you can’t mess with that.  On the off-chance that something threatens to take someone before their time, it’s our job to stop it, and if need be, to back up the time stream to reverse an untimely death.”

                “Wait wait wait, so you guys get to use _time travel_?” Zack asked, intrigued.

                “Eh, I wouldn’t really call it ‘traveling.’  More like a little rewind.  It really only works up to a couple hours or so.  But if someone’s in danger, that’s more than enough time to get them out of the way.”

                Milo frowned thoughtfully.  “I mean, I can see how that would help with something like a big meteorite or a rabid wolf,” he mused.  “But what about something that takes more than two hours to prevent?”

                “Yeah, like what if someone has a brain tumor that’s been growing for years?” Melissa asked as she licked frosting off of her finger.

                “Guys, can you lighten up a little?  I’m trying to enjoy my paradise,” Zack complained.

                “Come on, Zack, we’re already dead,” Melissa reminded him.

                “A tumor is a natural death,” Dakota explained.  “It only gets planted if that is how a person is meant to die.  And for the most part, nature takes its course.  In fact, for millions of years, we didn’t even need a Bureau of Guardianship, because jellyfish and sharks and dinosaurs don’t really deviate from the path of pure instinct.  But when you’re dealing with humans, or certain other species on other planets, well, then free will comes into the equation.  Suddenly their life events get unpredictable, and we have to intervene if things get too off-track.  I’m not just talking about stuff like a human murdering another human, but things like… say a car accident happens because the driver decided at the last minute he wanted to get off at a different exit, or say someone who’s allergic to pineapples is at a party and decides to try a muffin that they don’t know has pineapple in it.  That sort of thing is hard to see coming.”  Dakota took a sip of the taffy milkshake a waitress had handed him, knowing by now that it was his favorite.  “Sometimes we do have to step in for dogs, cats, and horses—creatures that are close enough to humans to risk being hurt by their impulses.  But animals have their own division.  I’m just certified for humans.”

                “Sounds like you have a very important job to do,” Milo told him, and Dakota had to laugh—Milo had some very entertaining stories about close calls on his life that, in retrospect, had some vigilant guardian angel’s fingerprints written all over them.

                “Sounds like I do,” Dakota agreed.

 

 

                Dakota eagerly ripped open the envelope the second it was handed to him, but then squinted in confusion.

                “Hey, Block?” he asked his superior, a stocky angel with a greenish halo.  “Aren’t we supposed to each get a list of humans to patrol?”

                “That’s what that is.  Do you need help reading it?”

                “Oh no, no, it’s just that, well, there’s… there’s only one name.”  He’d spent so many classes learning techniques for how to keep tabs on dozens, if not hundreds, of humans at a time; he’d been told, over and over again, just what the angel-to-mortal ratios looked like, and they were far too low for each person to get their own angel.  Heaven was big, but it wasn’t that big.

                Brick, another higher-ranked angel, was getting a cup of tea nearby, and evidently eavesdropping.  “Is it ‘Balthazar Cavendish’ by any chance?”

                “Yeah, as a matter of fact.”

                “He’s what we call a ‘volatile case,’” explained Savannah, Brick’s best friend.  She had huge silver wings that she usually folded in front of her, where they draped loosely, like a dress.  “Most mortals will only require angelic temporal intervention once or twice in their lifetimes, but certain ones, for whatever reason, seem to attract chaos at every turn.  It’s basically impossible for someone charged with a volatile case to ever really focus on anyone else at the same time.  I’m pretty sure Balthazar Cavendish is the only volatile case on Earth at the moment, but boy, is he a doozy.”

                “The last guy to have him had to go back like twenty times in one week,” Brick chuckled.

                “Wait, so what happened to the last guy?”

                Brick only smiled smugly.

 

               

                Earth.  For the first time in his five-million-year lifetime, Dakota was going to visit Earth.

                And all he had to do, for the time being at least, was plant a single feather onto Balthazar Cavendish.  That would allow him to watch the man from afar, while he did whatever he wanted in heaven.  He still felt sort of insulted that his list included only one name, but he would make the best of it.  Cavendish couldn’t really be that bad, could he?

                Dakota flew up, up, up into the portal in the sky, knowing that all he had to do was say the name of the exact location and he would be transported there in a jiffy.

                “Cavendish Hall Conservatory of Music,” he stated clearly, as he had been directed from the notes on Cavendish’s case.  He hadn’t read all the fine details, because the angel who’d written the last reports was so dry and clinical, but he knew the man he was looking for was in his late twenties, a music teacher, and heir to the world’s monopoly on pistachio farms.

                The next thing he knew, he was on the front lawn of a somewhat run-down building in a dilapidated neighborhood.  A “For Sale” sign was planted in the shaggy grass, but the place wasn’t entirely abandoned.  Dakota heard “Für Elise” spilling out of one of the third-story windows.  Dakota wouldn’t have known “Für Elise” from any other human music, save for the fact that Beethoven happened to live in the apartment below him and played this one often.  Frankly, Dakota had started to tire of it.  The perks of living in heaven.

                Except this time, the song sounded… different from when Beethoven played it.  Was it bad that Dakota liked this version better than the composer’s?  Maybe Beethoven had just grown numb to the emotion behind it after playing it for centuries, but the tune that landed on Dakota’s ears sounded earnest, real.  Somber, and maybe even a tiny bit bitter, but also hopeful, pleading.

                Dakota had to meet this man.

                He flew up to the window, unconcerned with being spotted; everyone knew that in their spiritual form, angels were entirely imperceptible to living mortals.  Now, to interact with the physical world, he would have to assume a corporeal form, if only briefly, but for now Dakota only needed to see his charge, and of course plant the feather.  He looked through the glass.

                Balthazar Cavendish was a beautiful man.

                Slim and graceful, his fingers glided naturally over the keys of a baby grand piano, the ebony and ivory bending to his will.  It wasn’t just in his hands; the music seemed to radiate through his shoulders, almost as if he had wings of his own.  And… his eyes were closed?  He wasn’t reading from a sheet?  Not only was Cavendish producing beautiful music, he was doing it straight from his soul.  It almost, almost pained Dakota to think that he would have to wait another sixty or so years to see a soul like that in heaven.

                But by every last one of his feathers, Dakota vowed to protect him here.

                He placed the feather directly between Cavendish’s shoulder blades.

                The second he did so, Cavendish startled, and for one wild second Dakota wondered if Cavendish had somehow felt the angel’s touch, even though that was ridiculous.  Then Cavendish turned his head, and Dakota realized that he had been so preoccupied with the man in front of him that he hadn’t even noticed the sound of feet shuffling on the carpet just outside the door.

                Someone knocked.  Cavendish stood up, sighed, and answered.

                “We’re here for the piano you sold to a Mr. Carmichael?” a man asked, while the man next to him scribbled something on a clipboard, uninterested.

                “Yes, sir, that… that would be this one,” Cavendish affirmed, slipping out into the hallway.  Dakota followed him, naturally, as he reached the stairwell and began his descent.

                There were tears in Cavendish’s eyes as he hugged himself.

                Dakota wished he’d read more of the notes now—what was the emotional significance of selling a piano?  Why was every single one of Cavendish’s steps slower than the last, as though he really, really did not want to leave the building?

                And why… oh shit.

                Shit, shit, shit, shit.

                “Head’s up!” one of the movers yelled from the top of the stairs, which, rather than inspiring Cavendish to move out of the way, made him pause, turn around, and look up.

                The piano crashed to the floor with a sickening _thud!_ as Cavendish’s blood stained the white rug below.

                “I told you we should have used the elevator!” the man with the clipboard snapped at the other.

                “It was broken, this was our only choice!” came the response.

                A broken elevator, responsible for Cavendish’s first death on Dakota’s watch.

                Dakota swallowed and rewound time to two hours before.  Luckily, thanks to his instructions at the academy, Dakota knew the mechanics of elevators perfectly well, should he ever need to save someone from falling to their death over a snapped cable, or from starving to death in a seldom-used car that had stopped, or from being trapped in a burning building should the stairs be unavailable.  He even had the tools at his disposal, so the moment he arrived in the recent past, he could get straight to work.

                He heard the front door of the building open and close, followed by a quick scamper up the stairs.  That had to be Cavendish, coming to check the tuning of the piano before surrendering it to the buyer.  Indeed, a whole repertoire of symphonies began to dance downstairs, more graceful than the hymns of the angelic Bureau of Choir (it was a thing).  Dakota didn’t know the names of all of the songs; in fact, there were some he had never even heard before.  Yet for some reason, he caught himself humming along as he worked.

                At one point the music stopped, and Cavendish, for whatever reason, came back downstairs, causing Dakota to panic momentarily—he couldn’t fix the elevator in spiritual form, but he didn’t dare let himself be seen on his first day.  Fortunately, whatever Cavendish had come down for was in the other room, and he scampered past the elevator without glancing inside.

                The music resumed.

                Dakota finished the elevator more quickly than he had anticipated, and even had time to test it, just to be sure.  The car was enormous; it must have to be, if it carried pianos and the like three stories up, after all.  Dakota worried a little bit that perhaps such a large elevator would also be noisy, prompting Cavendish to once again leave his spot to investigate the sudden noise.  Fortunately, all that could be heard was the little chime at the top story, at which point Dakota emerged and crept back to the room with the lovely music.  He knew he should resume spiritual form if he was going to lurk just outside the door, but it felt so simultaneously peaceful and exciting, real notes played by a real human vibrating against a real eardrum, that Dakota had to keep this form just a _little_ bit longer.

                Alas, when “Für Elise” played again, the movers returned—or rather, arrived, having not yet entered the conservatory in this timeline—and Dakota was forced to disappear into a thin little wisp.  Once again, Cavendish left the room, and once again, he went downstairs crying, for reasons that left Dakota once again puzzled.

                But this time, rather than being run over by a rogue piano, the man simply donned his coat and top hat, left the building, and disappeared into the autumn dusk.

 

 

                For the next few months, just as promised, Dakota repeatedly had to save Cavendish’s life, over and over again.

                There were a couple of drunk drivers.  A snakebite.  A bridge that gave out just as Cavendish was walking over it.  Usually, if Dakota was vigilant, he could get the upper hand and remove the danger before Cavendish had to face it in the first place, but some things just couldn’t be accounted for.  Some days, it seemed, he had just returned to heaven to file the incident report to the Bureau when he had to drop everything and go back to Earth before Cavendish landed in the lava pit again.

                Brick and Savannah snickered whenever this happened, as though mocking him for not believing that one man could be so accident-prone.  Yet strangely, Dakota never felt embarrassment or dread or irritation whenever he had to make a save; the only thing he felt was relief that his designated human was, once again, walking, talking, eating, breathing.  He found himself spending more and more time on Earth, not because Cavendish’s demises had escalated, but because it was just so much easier to react quickly when he was right there with him.

Also, he loved that music.

                Cavendish no longer seemed to give music lessons, that much was true, but when he wasn’t working (doing some incredibly boring-looking paperwork from his desk at home), or going to the library or jogging or tending the flowers on his balcony (much more worthwhile pursuits in Dakota’s opinion), he would spend hours on end practicing on an upright piano with a few chipped places in the wood.  Some nights he would stay up late, making little notes on blank sheet music, and Dakota came to realize why he was unfamiliar with the melodies he had first heard that day at the conservatory—the songs were written by Cavendish himself.

                Other nights, though, were not so pleasant.  Sometimes, instead of sitting at the piano bench, Cavendish would just sit quietly in the kitchen, nursing a bottle of scotch and munching on pretzels as he scrolled through photos or played meaningless games on his phone.  Some nights, it even got so bad that Cavendish went to bed early, but instead of sleeping, he would just sob against his pillow into the wee hours of the morning.  He never called or emailed anyone, though, no matter how upset he was, and Dakota wondered why, until he realized that he had never once seen Cavendish invite friends over or join a book club or go on a date.

                The man was beautiful, but he was utterly alone.

One day, Cavendish was lying on the couch with Dakota hovering over him when the messaging app on his tablet beeped.  He sat up and answered, and Dakota, overcome with curiosity, had to eavesdrop.

                A woman, perhaps in her late sixties, appeared on the screen, and greeted him calmly.  “Good evening, Balthazar.”

                “Good evening, Mother.”

                Mother?

                “I’m responding to the email you sent regarding the upcoming holidays.  Unfortunately, I have dealings with our partners in Syria that I cannot afford to miss.  Next year’s pistachio demand is projected to be at an all-time high, and I need to ensure that the plantations are running at peak efficiency.”

                “Yes, Mother.  I understand,” Cavendish said, his voice level.  “Father has informed me that he will be likewise occupied, given the expectations of the 2168 election season.  He’ll be meeting with his sponsors.”

                “So much for calling himself a self-made man,” the woman sneered.  “Having to beg for funding and dole out favors as though he were a call boy.  No matter; I am sure you can have a pleasant holiday with your associates from the conservatory.”

                “Erm, yes.  About that,” Cavendish began.  “Father saw fit to sell the music school as well as its assets to further finance his campaign.  I no longer teach there.”

                “Finally!” his mother declared.  “I tried to convince him to sell for many years.  Oh, he’d go on about ‘the arts,’ but it just wasn’t a lucrative business at all.  It was practically a charity.”

                “I suppose that could be said,” Cavendish said diplomatically.

                “Not to mention what a relief of a burden it is for you, Balthazar,” she continued.  “You really didn’t need to bother with the lessons at all.  Your nest egg is more than sufficient.  And this way, you have time to invest in your musical career.”

                Cavendish swallowed.  “I suppose now that I’m free of other obligations, I ought to schedule more auditions.”

                “Exactly.  You are still a young man, and you still have your whole future to plan for.  It’s high time you were more proactive about making yourself visible.  You have to be your own agent.  You can’t make it if you hide in your flat all day.”

                Cavendish nodded.  “Very well.  Perhaps we shall see each other at Christmas next year.”

                “Good night, Balthazar.”

                “Good night, Mother.”

                Dakota watched as Cavendish set the tablet aside and curled into a ball.  His eyes were closed, but he was much too tense to be anywhere close to sleep.

                Dakota placed a hand on Cavendish’s back, right on top of his feather.  He would have loved to make himself corporeal, to give Cavendish a real shoulder pat or maybe even a hug.

                But he couldn’t.

 

 

                Dakota didn’t know why he had hoped Cavendish would find someone else to spend the holidays with, or at least a few buddies to grab drinks with down at the pub, but Christmas Eve rolled around and, sure enough, Cavendish was still alone.

                Strangely, he did put up a tree, an artificial tabletop tree, but a tree nevertheless.  It appeared that he had put it away with its decorations from last year, and the year before that.  A few branches were bent at funny angles, but otherwise, it seemed a reasonably festive piece of décor.  Dakota was low-key proud that he had had the foresight to surreptitiously swap out the old, frayed string of lights for a newer set that wouldn’t electrocute Cavendish the moment he plugged it in, thus not requiring time manipulation to save his life.

                Cavendish played a few traditional carols on the piano; unlike his usual tunes, these had words, so as he played he was able to sing along in a gentle, tenor voice that carried with it something almost like holiday cheer.  This lasted for an hour or so before he went to the kitchen, produced a carton of eggnog, and retired to the couch for the evening.

                “Well, looks like it’s just you and me this year, Angel.”

                Dakota frantically stared down at his body, but he was still incorporeal.  How did Cavendish know?  That was when Dakota realized that Cavendish was making eye contact with the little ornamental angel on top of the tree.

                “Yes, I know, you’re just here because I stuck you there.  See, that’s how it is with me.  People don’t really want to see me, but one way or another they get stuck with me anyway.”

                Dakota’s jaw dropped.

                Cavendish continued.  “Before Mother and Father split, I used to think we came together at Christmas because we loved each other.  But they clearly didn’t love each other, and over time, I found that they each preferred the Christmases I spent with the other.”  He took a swig of eggnog.  “And it doesn’t stop there.  I was always the last to find a partner on projects when I was a schoolboy, you know.  Now in adulthood, acquaintances really only join me for lunch or tea because it’s polite to accept.  You could even say that my students didn’t really choose me.”  He closed his eyes.  “I ran a cheap music school, with cheap lessons, in a poor neighborhood where nobody could afford anything better.  If they wanted to learn music at all, they were stuck with me.  _You’re_ stuck with me.  I am the man everyone just gets stuck with.”

                If Dakota had blood, it would have boiled at that statement.  Surely it couldn’t be true.  Surely there were some fellow humans who legitimately enjoyed Cavendish’s company.  Right now, Cavendish was Dakota’s entire world, after all.  It had to matter to someone besides just him.

                Cavendish didn’t say anything else after that.  He just downed the eggnog and fell asleep on the couch.  Dakota’s head was still spinning.

                He knew it was risky.  He knew it was entirely against the rules.

                But he did not dare let this beautiful man go unloved at Christmas.

                He dashed into the bedroom, where he found the softest, cuddliest blanket he could.  He released his spiritual form so he could carry the blanket back to the living room.

                He draped it over Cavendish and tucked him in.

                He braced himself to have to disappear at any moment.  But Cavendish was, evidently, a deep sleeper, and he did not stir.

                So Dakota got a tiny bit bolder.  He leaned over Cavendish’s ear, and in a whisper, sang the words to the carol that Cavendish had seemed to like the best:

 

_Just hear those sleigh bells jingling,_

_Ring-ting-tingling too_

_Come on, it’s lovely weather_

_For a sleigh ride together with you_

_Outside the snow is falling_

_And friends are calling, ‘Yoo-hoo!’_

_Come on it’s lovely weather_

_Far a sleigh ride together with you_

Dakota placed a hand on his charge’s cheek.

                It _would_ have been lovely to go riding in a sleigh with Cavendish.

 

 

                Six months had come and gone when Dakota was summoned to Block’s office.

                Brick and Savannah were there, grinning knowingly.

                “Congratulations, kid,” Block told him as he reached into a filing cabinet.

                “Congratulations?  On what?”

                “On surviving your hazing,” Brick told him.

                “The Cavendish assignment is, like we told you when you first got here, a royal pain in the ass,” Savannah explained.  “He’s the lowest of the low.”

                “Which is why we always hand him off to the newest shmuck we can to see if they’ve got what it takes, sink or swim,” Block said.  “I mean, you still had some calls that were too damn close for comfort, but you pulled through.  You’ve proven yourself, paid your dues.  And now we’ve got a new ‘new guy’ so you’re done with this crap.”

                “So you’re… you’re reassigning me?” Dakota asked.

                “Yep.  I got your new assignment list here.  It’s got eighty-nine names on it, but trust me, they’re not gonna give you half the grief you’ve been dealing with.”

                “You’ll probably have to rescue someone every other month or so,” Savannah said.

                Block handed Dakota the envelope.

                But Dakota didn’t open it.

                “Do I _have_ to be reassigned?” he asked.

                All three of them stared at him as if he’d just requested duty in the trenches of World War V.

                “Well, do I?”

                “You don’t want to!” Brick declared.  “Look, sorry we put you through the wringer, but—”

                “But nothing.  I liked Cavendish duty.  I’m cool staying there.”

                “Dakota, _nobody_ likes Cavendish duty,” Savannah insisted.  “Or any volatile case for that matter.  But even for a volatile case, Cavendish is something else.  He’s dull, irresponsible, and whiny.”

                “Half the times you had to rescue him could’ve been prevented if he weren’t so stupid,” Brick added.

                Savannah nodded in agreement.  “Seriously, you don’t want to sign up for a few more decades of this.  Balthazar Cavendish isn’t an assignment.  He’s the man everyone just gets stuck with.”

                Dakota felt his blood boiling like he had back at Christmas.  “Not me.  _I’m_ choosing him, if it’s allowed.”  And if it wasn’t allowed, well, his feather was still planted on the man’s back, so he could still find him and watch over him anyway.

                Block laughed cruelly.  “Turns out you’re the biggest shmuck of them all!  But it gets the guy off of the rest of our backs, so why not.”  He turned to Brick.  “Give the new guy that assignment in Florida instead.  That group is _almost_ as bad.”

                Brick complied.

                Just then, Dakota felt his wings tingle just a little bit, like they always did when Cavendish was in trouble.  He paused a minute to concentrate on the vision.

                “I gotta go,” he told the other angels.  “It looks like Cavendish isn’t having a real great time with some koala in a mask.”

                “Last chance to back out,” Savannah warned him.

                Dakota shrugged.  “He’s Cavendish,” he told her simply.  “What are you gonna do?”


	2. Face-to-Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakota reveals himself to Cavendish, but it doesn't change as much as he would've liked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, anything distinctly angelic (wings/halos) disappears when the angel is in corporeal form, hence why Cavendish initially perceives Dakota as an ordinary human. Also, the physical/spiritual dichotomy only exists on Earth; while angels in heaven are technically incorporeal, the fact that literally everything around them is also a spiritual entity allows them to interact with objects as if they were material.

Things got a bit better as spring emerged.  Sure, Cavendish was still isolated most of the time, and there were still lonely nights with nothing but scotch and tears, but they were getting somewhat less frequent.  Something about the extra hours of sunlight, or else maybe the fact that he was spending more time outside, seemed to loosen him up a bit.

Of course, he was still a walking disaster.  In fact, it seemed like Dakota had to save him more often now that he was spending less time in the house.  An evening walk might be good for Cavendish’s spirit, but even without leaving the neighborhood, deathtraps abounded.  One night it was a manhole that was missing its cover.  Another time it was a runaway ice cream truck.  Then it was a pack of feral orangutans.  So on, and so forth.

It was inconvenient as hell, and sometimes after Cavendish retired to bed Dakota found himself exhausted as he returned to heaven, but he stubbornly ignored it.  All it would take was one misplaced sigh and Savannah would smirk as if to say, _Well, you did ask for it!_ Dakota refused to give her or Brick that satisfaction.  He would just have to hope Cavendish planned on sleeping in the next day if he wanted to catch his breath.

Yet a part of Dakota always sort of hoped that Cavendish wasn’t going to sleep in, that he would wake up early and go jogging or make himself breakfast or tend to the plants on the balcony.  He sure had a lot of them for so small of a deck.  He didn’t really have a green thumb, but Dakota enjoyed just watching him try.

And, like all things Dakota enjoyed watching Cavendish do, naturally this hobby would get the man killed.

 

 

It all started innocuously enough—Cavendish had stopped by a home improvement store to pick up a box of light bulbs, and then literally stopped to smell the roses in the garden department.  It was a pleasant, balmy day, and Dakota’s guard was down when Cavendish got stung by a wasp.

Who knew the man was allergic to wasps?

No matter; Dakota simply went back in time as he always did.  All he had to do was squish the wasp before it found Cavendish.  Except, right as he was about to do so he was stopped by a fellow guardian angel—this one from the Department of Insects.

Who knew the Bureau of Guardianship _ever_ dispatched angels to save bugs?

Apparently, this wasn’t just any wasp—it was among the last of an endangered species that, according to the Bureau of Prophecy, must not be allowed to go extinct until at least a thousand years later.  Thus, while Dakota was still bound by his responsibility to Cavendish, he was not permitted to physically harm the wasp in any way.  This ruled out squishing, poison, even damage to the wasp’s habitat—which meant Dakota wasn’t even allowed to move the flower by which Cavendish met his fate.

He was running out of options, and running out of time.

Here came Cavendish, _now_ , moseying through the aisles of rosebushes.

And Dakota was still corporeal.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Hey there!” Dakota called, making Cavendish turn around.

“Hey… what?”

“Oh sorry, you, ah… looked like someone I knew,” Dakota flubbed out.  Well, it was technically true; otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to say it.  Angels couldn’t lie.  “Sorry about that.”

“It’s quite all right.”

“So you… you really like roses, huh?”  _Lame_.  “They’re neat and all, but you really need something that can handle shade.  Like a begonia, or maybe some impatiens.  There really isn’t enough light on your balcony for roses.”

“Hold on, _do_ I know you?” Cavendish asked.  “How do you know I have a balcony?”

Damn.  “Eh, no offense, but you’ve got some ‘city slicker’ vibes to you.  Not a bad thing or anything, just, you don’t look like you live somewhere roses grow well.”

“You seem awfully confident.”

“Call it… intuitive.”

“Very well.  _Intuitive_.  Do you know much about plants?”

By angelic standards, no.  The finer points of botany were hammered into fledglings from a young age so that the lush greens and ripe orchards of heaven would stay maintained, but Dakota hadn’t particularly paid attention to those lessons the way some of his classmates did.  But in all likelihood, Dakota still knew plenty more than Cavendish.  So to affirm would not be a lie either.

“Yeah, I do.  Runs in my family.”

“So are you here often?”

_Here_?  Well, “here” was a vague term.  Dakota had never been in this store before, sure, but he did spend a lot of time on Earth these days, and Earth was “here.”

“Yeah, I am.”

Cavendish stroked his chin.  “You do look familiar,” he declared.  “Are you sure we didn’t go to school together, or something of the sort?  Do tell me your name.”

Oh, great.  Revealing one’s physical form was bad enough, but telling a mortal the name of their guardian angel was really frowned on.  Wait, though… there was a way around it…

A cart full of bright magenta vincas caught Dakota’s eye.  But “Vinca” wasn’t a human name, was it?  “You can call me.. Vinnie,” he spouted off.  It might not be his name, but Cavendish _could_ call him that.

“Vinnie,” Cavendish repeated, and Dakota liked the way it rolled off of the man’s tongue.  He’d chosen his pseudonym well.  “And I’m Balthazar.  Vinnie, would you like to join me for a drink this evening?”

A drink?

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Sorry, I can’t!”  Fraternization.  With a living mortal, it was a very slippery slope.  Dakota knew this all too well.  It was highly irresponsible, and likely to mess up the mortal’s social destiny, and—

That face.

That sorrowful, defeated face.

Suddenly, Dakota remembered exactly what Cavendish had said to his tree topper last Christmas, about people only accepting invitations to be polite.  Except Dakota hadn’t even accepted in the first place.  Cavendish would think Dakota didn’t _want_ to join him, which was so not true that letting it go uncorrected was practically a lie in and of itself.

“I mean, I’d love to!” Dakota clarified.  “I really, really would.  But I can’t, for… religious reasons.”  Angels were creatures of religious lore; that made any reason they had to do or not do anything, by default, a religious reason.

Cavendish covered his mouth.  “My word, I’m terribly sorry!  I meant no disrespect, I assure you!”

“Oh no, it’s not disrespectful, it’s just, I can’t… I can’t do it.  Besides, I’m actually from out of town, and I’m… I’m headed back tonight.”

“But you did say you came here often?”

“I do…”

“So perhaps we could have dinner sometime instead, when you come back?  Does your faith have dietary restrictions?  Halal, or kosher, or anything of that sort?  Are you a vegetarian?”

“No, nothing like that, I can eat whatever I want.”

“Well then, that leaves us with a lot of delightful options in this city.  Next time you’re here, that is.”  The invitation remained wide open, its promise too tempting to reject forever.  Why couldn’t Cavendish take no for an answer?

Simple: Because Dakota couldn’t _give_ no for an answer.

“Yeah, okay, I’d… I’d like that.”

 

 

“All right, Dakota, we’re taking bets over here,” Melissa said as Dakota entered Milo’s apartment for one of their biweekly Dr. Zone marathons.  Zack was already there, as were Amanda and Veronica, a swift messenger angel with six wings total—the usual two on her back, plus one pair on her ankles and another on her helmet.  As usual, Veronica had come bearing pizza for everyone and she’d still gotten there faster than Dakota.  Sara, Milo’s sister, wasn’t there, but despite her love for the show, Dakota suspected she wasn’t coming.  She had recently started seeing Neal, who ran a busy comic shop modeled after the one he had owned during his earthly life.  Milo was supportive of the couple, but sometimes Dakota wondered if he got jealous of the fact that they could flaunt their romance in public without judgment, since both were human.  Human with human, angel with angel; that was the natural order and always had been.

“You mean about whether Time Ape’s clone was conspiring with the Trashcandroids all along?  Because I’m in, my money’s on—”

“Not about Trashcandroids!” Milo said in a sing-song voice.  “About you!”

“Me?” Dakota asked, puzzled.

True to her surname, Melissa cut right to the chase.  “Who is it?”

“Who’s who?”

“Oh come on!” Zack insisted.  “It’s all over your face.”

“Your halo’s extra-gold lately,” Milo added.  “Like how Amanda gets extra-pink when… oomph!”  Amanda clapped her hand over Milo’s mouth.  Even though everyone in the room knew exactly what was going on between those two (well, not _exactly_ ; the couple was entitled to their privacy, after all), and they were in the seclusion of Milo’s private quarters, it still probably wasn’t a good idea to say too much aloud.  Plausible deniability and all that.

“Also you haven’t touched the floor, like, once since you came in,” Veronica pointed out.

Dakota looked down.  Sure enough, the tips of his sneakers floated a good six inches or so above the ground.  Well, of course angels could hover, but it usually didn’t happen by accident unless they were really excited about something.

“Okay,” he confessed.  “You got me.  Yeah, I… I met someone.  But I’d… I’d really rather not say who, just yet.”  As trustworthy as Amanda and Veronica were, he didn’t want to force them to work through the gymnastics of not-lying but not betraying him should anyone ask him what was going on.  Not that there was anything to betray—he hadn’t done anything wrong, after all, and as inadvisable as association with living mortals was, it wasn’t outright banned.  Still.  Still still still.  “I mean, it’s not like… _that_ kind of ‘someone’.  It’s just a guy I’m meeting for dinner.  And it’s not going to go anywhere after that.”

“Are you entirely sure?” Melissa practically squealed.  “Is it time for a makeover montage?”  She looked expectantly at Amanda, but Amanda’s expression was oddly serious compared to the others’.

Did she know?

“So where’d you meet him?” Milo asked.

“A garden store.  He was looking at the roses and I just…”  Crap, he was about to give everything away.

“Which store?  Isabella’s?”  Zack and his uncle, who ran a farm that was even bigger than the one he’d had when he was alive, were frequent patrons of the agricultural supply center located just at the outskirts of Pearly Heights, heaven’s capital city.  The lady who ran it had died around the same time as Zack, and apparently came from the same county back on Earth.

“No, not Isabella’s.  It’s kinda far from here.  I don’t think you’ve been there before.”

“Is it the Park ‘n’ Bark?  That’s the one the groundskeepers use over in Dog Heaven.”  Milo would know his way around Dog Heaven; he often went to visit Diogee, his faithful pet from childhood.

“No, that’s not it either,” Dakota denied.

“Guys… I really think that we should leave Dakota alone about this,” Amanda spoke up diplomatically.  “It sounds like he still has a lot to figure out.  He’ll tell us more when he’s ready.”

“All right, all right,” Melissa obliged.

“We’re just happy to see you happy,” Zack promised.

“That really _is_ quite the glow, though.”  Milo put his arm around Amanda.  “But very well then.  Without further ado, we shall resume the adventures of Dr. Zone!”

 

 

“Ichiro’s Sushi Bar and Grill,” Dakota stated at heaven’s portal.  He had given in and allowed Melissa to take him shopping for a new suit and tie, but he had drawn the line at bringing a bouquet.  Even though the exchange of flowers amongst platonic friends and even colleagues was normal in heaven, he couldn’t recall what the underlying implications might be according to Earth’s customs.  Besides, he really didn’t need another wasp darting out of a rose blossom and sending Cavendish into anaphylactic shock.

He landed in front of a restaurant, where Cavendish was already waiting on a bench just outside, but since Dakota was still in spiritual form his presence didn’t register.  Cavendish was checking his watch—crap, was Dakota late?  But he couldn’t just appear out of nowhere!  He ducked into the adjacent alley, keeping his eyes peeled for any humans who might be alarmed.  The second he was physical, he inhaled deeply, which he regretted almost instantly.  Why, oh, why had he chosen an alley, of all places, to materialize?  Would the smell linger on him?  Would Cavendish be repulsed?  But there was nothing he could do about that now.  He looked how he looked and he smelled how he smelled, and if Cavendish didn’t like it, he would never have to see Dakota again.

Somehow, that thought wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

The second Dakota emerged back onto the sidewalk, Cavendish spotted him.  “Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.”  He placed a hand on Dakota’s shoulder, and if he smelled the refuse from the trash cans at all, he didn’t react in the slightest.  “I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites…”

 

 

“So tell me more about your hometown,” Cavendish requested as their food arrived.  Dakota had ordered the exact same meal as the mortal—the calamari platter—because come to think of it, he had never once eaten anything outside of heaven.  He didn’t know if things would taste different in his corporeal form, or if these clumsy arms would make using a fork difficult, but at the very least, he figured he could blend in better by following Cavendish’s lead.

“Oh, it’s… it’s kind of far from here.  More like… a commune.  A religious commune.”  It was true; while money did exist in heaven, its purpose was for little more than bookkeeping and tracking the flow of resources.  Nobody was ever denied anything on the grounds that they couldn’t afford it, and work wasn’t really mandatory, at least not for humans.  Actually, Dakota couldn’t recall whether angels were legally required to work or not, but every last angel he knew had something they would rather be doing than sitting around watching TV for all eternity, and most mortals felt likewise.

“That’s right, you mentioned you abstain from alcohol,” Cavendish recalled, even though that wasn’t exactly what Dakota had told him, because that would not have been true.  Dakota liked to grab a beer with his friends as much as the next guy, but since he couldn’t clarify that point without giving away more details than he dared, it was probably better to just let the assumption rest.  Just then Dakota noticed that the man had ordered iced tea, even though the restaurant had an extensive wine list that included some varieties of which Cavendish was quite fond.  “Is your religion… strict, overall?”

“We’re organized,” Dakota told him.  “But it’s not like we have a million rules.  We have our responsibilities, but as long as we get everything done we’re free to do pretty much whatever we want.”  It sounded like a specific answer, even though it was really pretty vague.  He should really change the subject before being pressed for more details.  “What about you?  Do you have any kind of spiritual beliefs?”

Cavendish bit into a fried tentacle.  “Not really,” he confessed.  “At least, my parents were never really churchgoers.  But personally?  I like to think heaven is a real place, at the very least.  And while it might seem sort of silly, sometimes… well, sometimes when I’m stressed, or lonely, I like to think that angels are looking out for me.”

Dakota almost choked on the noodles he was slurping.

“It’s just a personal belief!” Cavendish said quickly.  “Childish, perhaps, but harmless.  I… well, you’re devout yourself, don’t you believe in angels?”

Dakota had to smile.  “Oh, definitely,” he concurred.  “It’s just… you seem like a pretty confident guy.”  Dakota was surprised that he was able to say that, given how much he knew to the contrary.  “I’m just trying to picture you stressed or lonely.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Cavendish said.  “I don’t know where I got the idea of angels watching over me.  It definitely doesn’t come from my parents.”

“Well, what about the rest of your family?”

At this, Cavendish grew solemn.  “I’m afraid I am an only child, as are my parents, as were their parents before them,” he explained.  “I have no other family.”

“Well, I guess that’s how you get lonely.”  Dakota hoped he didn’t come off as too insensitive, but he couldn’t let on how much he really knew.

“It’s… it’s also how I get stressed,” Cavendish admitted.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I am the only one who can inherit my mother’s pistachio empire.  I am also the only one who will pose with my father for campaign photos—if you ask me, his ‘family man’ image is a little difficult to pull off when he’s divorced and I’m his only son, but I have to support him.  I haven’t even decided yet if I want children of my own at all, but again, I’m the only person who can ever give them a grandchild, so I suppose that decision was already made for me.  And even after all that, I still have to carve out a name for myself with an endeavor that’s independently mine, or I’ll never be able to look in the mirror and see a self-made man.  I thought for some time I would apply myself with my musical career, but there’s just so little demand for that.”  He took a long sip of his iced tea.  “Your commune, if it is as you say, sounds lovely.  I would love to feel free to do as I please after I’m finished with my work.  But some days, I feel like I’m never really finished.  Like I keep slaving away, but I’ll never be that important.”

“You’re important!”  Dakota stood up and leaned over the table.  “Listen to me.  You.  Are.  _Extremely_ important!  And not because of who your parents are, or because you are or aren’t going to have children, or because of who you’re gonna marry, or even because of how much you rock on the piano.  You’re Balthazar Cavendish, and that’s enough right there!”

At this, Cavendish’s brow furrowed, and he raised one finger.  “That’s… that’s all very touching… but I never did tell you I played the piano!  How do you know so much about me?  This can’t all be intuition.”  Strangely, he didn’t seem angry, just perplexed.

Just then, Cavendish’s eyes widened, and Dakota heard a commotion behind him.  He whipped his head around to see the girl at the cash register looking terrified as she held up her hands.  A man was pointing a gun right at her.

“Just open the register, little lady, and we all walk out of here alive,” he promised.  She didn’t look like she believed him completely, but with her hands trembling, she opened the drawer.

“P-p-please,” she begged, “I have a fiancé.  We have two dogs.  My mother’s in the hospital.  I… I can’t just…”

“Shut up and fill the sack!”

Although by this point, Dakota was used to close brushes with death, this was the first one he’d seen that didn’t involve Cavendish.  Well.  It wasn’t his responsibility; the girl’s own guardian angel would surely swoop in to save the day, right?  Unless this was supposed to be the day she died?

Then there was another man—just a regular guy, Dakota realized, not a fellow angel, because an angel would not have allowed the situation to escalate like this when they could’ve rewound time and dealt with it more discreetly.  The man lunged for the robber, and—

_Bang!_

The gun.  It had fired.

But the girl was fine.  Her eyes were clenched shut and her arms were crossed over her chest as though that could shield her, but she was unhurt.

“He’s bleeding!” someone screamed.

He?

Dakota turned back to Cavendish, but he already knew, in the pit of his stomach, what had happened.

Cavendish lay on the floor, eyes stuck open, not moving.

“An ambulance!  Somebody call an ambulance!”

But it was too late.  Dakota knew it all too well.  Accepting that the evening behind him would now be relegated to an alternate timeline, he backed up the time stream.

 

 

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.  I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites…”

“Actually, about that,” Dakota said.  “I was wondering if we could try someplace else instead?”

Cavendish tilted his head slightly.  “What did you have in mind?”

Crap, Dakota didn’t actually know anything about other options in the neighborhood.  “I’m feeling a steakhouse, if you know any good ones.”

“I do, in fact.  There’s a lovely Texan one just two blocks over…”

And just like that, they were having dinner again, again with iced tea instead of alcohol, this time with a pair of rib-eyes and a basket of bottomless fries.  Cavendish posed the same question about Dakota’s hometown, but perhaps if Dakota steered the conversation in a different direction, there would be less risk of almost spilling everything.

“It’s kind of far, but like I told you, I’m on the move a lot.  What about you?”

“I’m not on the move as much as I maybe should be.  But I work from home, so it’s easy to stay in my flat all day.”

“What do you do?”

“Oh, I balance some numbers for my mother’s business.  She actually owns almost ninety-five percent of the world’s pistachio farms, you know, and she’s in the process of acquiring more.”

“Sounds like she’s really ‘nuts’ about them!”  Dakota grinned foolishly at his own pun, but to his surprise, Cavendish smiled a little back.

“Yes, well, our family business goes back well over a century.  To be honest, I’m not certain that we really need to increase our holdings, but it isn’t up to me.”  He tossed a fry into his mouth.  “But she says that if we don’t shape up, the remaining five percent will drag us to ruin with competitive pricing.”

“Wow… seems like you guys take the seeds seriously.  Who knew the worldwide demand was that high?”

That was when Cavendish slumped guiltily.  “Actually… there’s a reason for the demand,” he explained.  “This… this isn’t my doing, so it shouldn’t weigh so on my conscience, but a substantial portion of our income is derived from contracts with the medical research industry.  It turns out that there’s a compound in the nuts that has a lot of chemical potential, and my mother holds the patent to the gene that produces it.  The pharmaceutical companies pay us handsomely for the privilege  to continue searching for cures.”  He poured extra steak sauce onto his meal.  “Passing along costs to people who need their medication and probably can’t afford it.  Do you think anyone sees what we’re doing?”

“Huh?”

“Well I thought, you’re religious… do you think somebody… angels, maybe… know about our little… corruptions?”

Dakota squeezed the slice of lemon into his drink.  “Wait, so you don’t think angels watching over you is a good thing?”  He really had to bite his tongue to avoid asking why Cavendish’s sentiment now so contradicted what he had said “before.”

“I don’t know.  I suppose it depends.  When things are hard, do I wish someone were there to deliver me from evil?  Yes, I do.  But when I, or someone I love, is committing the evil, can I face those repercussions?  Would an angel even want to bother rescuing me in the former scenario if it knew about the latter?”

“Yes, yes he would!”  Shit, not again.  “So you made some mistakes.  Every human does.  Don’t you deserve protection as much as the next guy?  Wouldn’t any angel who got to know you, really know you, know that you’re worth saving?  Because you are, Cavendish!”

And that was when the smoke alarm went off.

“Kitchen fire!” one of the staff yelled, and everyone in the establishment bolted for the exit, Cavendish included.

“Balthazar!” Dakota yelped as he watched his charge get trampled to the ground.

Twice.  In one night.  Seriously?

Back to the rewind.

 

 

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.  I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites…”

This time, it was a fancy candlelit place.  And this time, one of the candles caught the tablecloth on fire and burned Cavendish to a crisp.

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.  I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites…”

A Mexican restaurant.  One of the kitchen staff slipped, fell, and sent a block of knives flying across the room, impaling Cavendish.

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.  I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites.”

An all-you-can-eat buffet.  Cavendish was allergic to coconut.  The staff swore nothing had coconut in it.  The staff were dirty liars.

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear you’d lost your way.  I do hope you like this eatery, it’s one of my favorites.”

A sub shop.  Cavendish choked on the toothpick.

_Why_ , though?

Why was every single establishment they tried so precarious?  It was as if the universe was determined not to allow Cavendish to live through this night.  But that was impossible, because if Cavendish had been destined to die, Dakota would have been relieved of his guardianship duty.  Not that Dakota particularly liked the thought of that, but it didn’t matter.  Cavendish was _not supposed to die_.

So why did it keep happening?

What could be sabotaging Dakota’s rescues at every turn?  Even for Cavendish, tonight was a record.  Not that that record would be published, of course, because Dakota was not going to file incident reports for any of this.  After all, the fact that he was interacting with his charge might raise some questions.

Wait.

Even though it wasn’t outright forbidden, Dakota was not supposed to be with Cavendish.  And Cavendish was not supposed to die.  Did the latter keep happening because of the former?

It was ridiculously superstitious.  Who would be enforcing fate in such a way?  The angels certainly didn’t know what Dakota was up to, or they would have put a stop to it already.  Did the universe have some kind of backup plan in the event that the angels didn’t do their job?

There was one way to find out.  And Dakota didn’t like it at all.

 

 

“Vinnie!  How good to see you made it!  I was beginning to fear—”

“Yeah, so… about that.  About everything.”  Dakota inhaled deeply.  “I… I have to bail on tonight.  I’m really, really sorry.”

“Are you all right?  Did something come up?”

“Not… not exactly.”  Because, so far, nothing had.  “I just… I can’t see you tonight.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you that.”  Dakota placed a hand on Cavendish’s shoulder, then jerked it back.  Perhaps it was safest to make as little contact as possible.  “I just… trust me, okay?”

“Well… can we reschedule?”

“No, Balthazar, I… we can’t.”  Dakota blinked back tears.  “I can’t see you again.  There’s a reason, a good reason, I just can’t tell you what it is.”

Cavendish crossed his arms.  “Well, if you didn’t want to see me, then why did you come at all?”

“I couldn’t just leave you hanging!”

“Why did you agree to have dinner in the first place, then?”

“I wanted to.  I really did.  I didn’t know then what I know now.  I… I have to go, Cavendish!”

And with that, he ran, ran like a madman into the night.  He was maybe four or five blocks away before he remembered that he even had the option of reverting to his spiritual form.  Which he did.  And then he dashed for Cavendish’s apartment.

Cavendish was already home.  He was on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, his trusty bottle lying empty at his side.  He got up once to throw up, but other than that, he didn’t move from his spot the whole evening.

But in perfect accordance with Dakota’s theory, Cavendish did not die.

 

 

Dakota knew it would probably be easiest if he just returned to heaven.  He was still on-call if something serious came up.  Yet somehow, all he could do was sit with Cavendish for the next few days, always present but never able to reveal himself.

For the first two days, it was awful.  The man did virtually nothing.  He didn’t even cry, as though he were simply out of tears to shed.  He didn’t shower, or get dressed, or eat anything except a single bowl of cereal.  Dakota was beginning to fear that he had broken the man he’d been ordered to save.

On the third day, though, Cavendish pulled out his phone.  He scrolled numbly for maybe an hour or two, but then paused at something.  His eyes widened, and he scrolled more slowly, as though he were intently reading an article.  Dakota tried to get a look at the page, but Cavendish’s phone screen was too small and his hand was in the way.

Whatever Cavendish had read, it seemed to provoke him in some way.  He made himself a proper breakfast before clicking on something else that seemed to likewise grab his attention.  Then he actually put his phone away for a while and went back to pistachio-related paperwork.

On the fourth day, he was back on the piano.

He seemed to be recovering.  Dakota breathed a sigh of relief.  Being ditched must have sucked, but even Cavendish seemed to realize that it wasn’t the end of the world.

With that, Dakota allowed himself to return to heaven.

 

 

Angels didn’t _need_ to sleep, but it was pleasant to finally rest once again in his own bed, in his own apartment.

Similarly, it was unpleasant to be jerked awake from that slumber by a vision.

And it was frightening when that vision was of Cavendish being smashed flat by a locomotive.

Dakota dashed to Earth so fast he forgot to change out of his pajamas.  No matter; Cavendish wouldn’t see him, nor would any other human.

Entirely accustomed to the drill by now, Dakota rewound time.

He didn’t go back by the full two hours, because he didn’t think it would take too long to get Cavendish off the train tracks.  Perhaps he could even keep Cavendish from standing on the train tracks in the first place.

The tracks were in a sort of clearing, on a warm, dewy morning.  Cavendish was nearby, humming to himself as he plucked wild blackberries from a vine that crawled along the fence about twenty feet or so away from the tracks.  Dakota panicked momentarily when Cavendish reached for some other sort of berry that he was pretty sure was poisonous, but upon realizing that it wasn’t a blackberry, Cavendish withdrew his hand.  He seemed happy, as the early morning sun rose just high enough for the beams to dance playfully across his face.  For the moment, at least, all was right with the world.

Then the whistle sounded.

And, upon hearing the whistle, Cavendish marched straight onto the tracks.

Suicide?

Back at the academy, Dakota had been warned all about methods humans used, but somehow, it had never crossed his mind that Cavendish might attempt.  Out of all the ways Cavendish had perished, this would be a first.  And right when Dakota thought he was getting over the other night, too.  Dakota had thought that blowing Cavendish off was protecting him, but had he doomed the man by _not_ dooming him?  If Dakota saved him this time, was he just going to try until he was successful?

The train sped closer.  Cavendish turned to face the oncoming engine, staring it down as if he meant to fight the damn thing.  He stood on the balls of his feet as he looked around, as though examining his options.  Was he planning to jump off the railroad at the last minute?  Was Balthazar Cavendish seriously playing chicken?  Didn’t he know he was going to lose?

No, of course he didn’t, otherwise Dakota wouldn’t have gotten that vision.

But how was Dakota supposed to prevent this death?  Even in his physical form, there was no way he’d be strong enough to hold back a train, and there was no switch-track for him to divert the train onto.

The train was even closer.  Cavendish looked terrified now, as though he’d begun to doubt his gambit, whatever it was.  Now it seemed like Dakota’s only options were to either yell at Cavendish, or to physically drag him out of the way, either of which would necessitate revealing his presence.

No, wait… Cavendish himself was bolting now.

But his shoe was stuck.

The lanky man fell flat on his face as he yanked at his foot, to no avail.  He closed his eyes, braced for death…

Dakota didn’t know when he had decided to go corporeal, or how he pried Cavendish loose from the track so quickly.  He didn’t remember saving the man at all; all he knew was that, two seconds later, he had Cavendish pinned to the grass just out of harm’s way, the roar of the train crashing into his eardrums as it sped by.

Cavendish stared up at Dakota in astonishment.  The mortal placed a hand on the angel’s face, then broke out in the biggest of grins.

“Ah-ha!  I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

He jumped up.  He picked up Dakota, who until now hadn’t considered the fact that his physical form made for a rather small man, and spun him around in circles.

“Easy easy easy, what did you know?” Dakota asked as Cavendish set him down again.

“This explains it, it explains everything!  I’m important after all!”  He squeezed Dakota’s hands in his.  “You’re my guardian angel, aren’t you?”

There it was.  Point-blank.  Cavendish had guessed the exact truth.

And it was literally impossible for Dakota to tell him otherwise, no matter what the rules said.

“Yes, I am.  I am your guardian angel.”  It felt so good to finally say those words out loud.  “But you… how did you know?”

“Well, I can’t say I knew for sure until just a moment ago,” Cavendish told him.  “But I suppose my suspicions began that night you canceled our plans.  I… I was very angry, with you, with me, I’m afraid I didn’t react well at all.”

“You really didn’t,” Dakota told him before he could stop himself.

“But then one morning I was scrolling through the news, and I learned that the restaurant we planned to eat at was robbed that very night.  I began to wonder if you were a criminal, and in league with the robber, but then I read other news stories.  A different restaurant in the area, one I probably would have recommended in the event that you didn’t like the first one, had a kitchen fire, again on that night.  And there were other incidents, some of which didn’t sound like criminal activity to me.  I came to realize that you weren’t rejecting me, you were protecting me!”  He raised his eyebrows at Dakota, as though asking for confirmation.

“Yeah.  Yeah, I was.  But Cavendish, listen, I have to explain myself a little more.”  It felt as though the morning warmth was gone, and the sky seemed to dim.  “What I said, about why I couldn’t see you again?  It wasn’t just about protecting you that night.  It was about protecting you every night.”  Dakota swallowed.  “We’re not supposed to talk with the humans we guard, all right?  And we definitely aren’t supposed to tell you what we really are.  If the Bureau finds out, they’ll probably reassign me, and honestly, I don’t know what they’d do to you to make sure you stay quiet.”  He turned around and looked down.  “I _need_ you to keep your mouth shut.  Whatever other humans might ask, whatever other humans might say, I need you to pretend like you never met me, like you don’t know my kind exists.  This little rendezvous?  It never happened.”

“Right.”  Cavendish cleared his throat.  “I can do that.”  He straightened up.  “I won’t like it, but I can do it.  If it’s what’s necessary to… to keep you out of trouble.”  The train now gone, Cavendish climbed back onto the rails, reaching down to help Dakota up.  “I’m sorry I tested you,” he said as they began to walk away.

“So that’s what that was,” Dakota replied.  “Yeah, if you could not risk yourself that way, that would really make my job easier.”

“I just wanted to know if you were really there.  For a moment I was starting to have serious doubts.”

“Yeah, those ‘doubts’ are more like self-preservation.  They’re there to keep you safe so I don’t have to do it.  For both of our sakes, you really should pretend I’m not here.”

“But maybe I like the thought of you being here,” Cavendish pointed out.  “Believe it or not, just the thought has helped me greatly over the past several months.”  He paused.  “Before we part ways, can you answer a question for me?”

“Of course.”

“The last day at the conservatory, the day we sold my piano… you were there, weren’t you?”

_That_ day.  “Yeah.”

“I knew someone was there.  I can’t say how, I just knew.  I even went looking.  It should have frightened me, but I really felt more hopeful.  I guess I just sensed your presence.”

“Look, with all due respect, that’s impossible.  When angels are in spiritual form, the only humans who can see or hear us are dead.”

“But I really felt it, Dakota.  I don’t think it was my imagination.  And then… you were there on Christmas Eve too, weren’t you?”

“Hey, I said I’d answer _a_ question.”  Dakota spread his arms to balance on the rail.  “But… yes.  I was there then, too.”

“You sang to me.”

Dakota swallowed.  “You’re right.  And that’s exactly the kind of thing that needs to stay secret.”

“It meant a lot to me.”

“I’m glad.  You seemed lonely.  Hey, do me a favor and… try to make some human friends, over the next few weeks or months or whatever?”  Perhaps this conversation didn’t have to be entirely pointless.  Perhaps some good could come of it.  “Since I can’t be your friend.”

“As much as we’d both like that to be the case.  No matter.  If that sets your heart at ease I’ll gladly do it.”  He stopped and turned to Dakota.  “I suppose this is where we must part ways, is it not?”

Dakota didn’t want to say yes.  He wanted to keep walking, back to town, back to Cavendish’s apartment, back to the madness of human existence.  But if he didn’t let go now, he’d never be able to.

He accepted a final hug from Cavendish as he shifted form once more.  Two men, two shadows on the pebbles beneath the tracks, became one man… with two shadows on the pebbles beneath the tracks?

It made no sense.  There should have been only one shadow left.  Dakota’s incorporeal form couldn’t block out the light.  A sense of dread filled him as the extra shadow, apparently unnoticed by Cavendish, perked up and darted back into the woods.  Dakota didn’t know what he had just seen.  But he knew he didn’t like it.

Nevertheless, the phantom shadow was part of Dakota’s Unsanctioned Adventures, which as of now, were drawing to a close.  As such, the Bureau didn’t need to know about it.  They didn’t need to know about anything.


	3. The Friend Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakota gains insight into Cavendish's love life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) IDK which state Cavendish's father is governor of, but it's the same one Milo Murphy and Phineas & Ferb live in. Since the show is deliberately vague about which state that is, I had to be equally vague.
> 
> 2) I know some of Cavendish's actions in this chapter are very hard to reconcile with a sympathetic character--for many of us, driving drunk crosses a certain moral event horizon, and for good reason. Please keep in mind, though, that having grown up in a world of self-driving cars, Cavendish hasn't had the dangers of getting behind the wheel under the influence drilled into his head the way we have. It's still a poor choice, but he really didn't understand the repercussions as thoroughly as someone from our historical period would.
> 
> 3) I tried to get the terminology right, but I haven't taken piano, or had music lessons of any kind, since I was 10 years old. Cut me some slack.

True to their words, Cavendish kept quiet, and Dakota kept out of sight.

Dakota had sort of expected _something_ to change about Cavendish’s home routine—that he might cast a knowing smirk into the empty room now and then, or be a little more shy about scratching himself, or comment on things aloud—but either Cavendish was really, really good at playing dumb, or the revelation honestly didn’t affect him that much.

At least he was socializing more, even if it was in a more professional context.  His father had introduced him to a handful of colleagues, many of them major contributors to his campaign fund, and they would go on fun little yacht tours, golfing trips, and weekend getaways.  Oddly, for people who did a lot, these people didn’t actually _do_ anything.  Like they would book a cruise somewhere exotic, only to spend the whole trip sunbathing on the ship’s deck, ordering cocktails that would’ve been much cheaper at a bar closer to home.  Dakota didn’t understand, but at least their agendas posed very little risk to Cavendish, and Dakota found that he sometimes went an entire week or even two without having to rescue the man once.  It made him wonder how long Cavendish would have to go without dying before he was no longer considered a “volatile case.”  Was Dakota about to get hit with a list of extra charges now that Cavendish didn’t need him as much?

It was beginning to arouse some suspicion at the Bureau.  “You haven’t filed any incident reports lately,” Block would comment.  “Are we sure you’re doing your job?”

“Yeah, I only save him once a week, the rest of the time I let him die.”  Huh.  Sarcasm didn’t count as a lie, apparently.  “I don’t know what to tell you.  Maybe he’s running out of steam.”

It left Dakota with more time on his hands, that was for sure, both because Cavendish needed saving less often and because, for whatever reason, Dakota no longer derived the same satisfaction he used to from watching over Cavendish.  True, the man was as beautiful as always, but it stung to know Cavendish knew Dakota was watching over him and yet didn’t care.

It was easier to just wait in heaven until Cavendish actually needed saving, even if it felt like Dakota was twiddling his thumbs.  He could even count on getting eight hours of sleep every night, like the humans did.  Or at least, he could count on getting eight hours on the nights he wasn’t interrupted.

The first time “Für Elise” echoed through his apartment at two in the morning, he shuffled downstairs to knock on Beethoven’s door to fuss at him.  Oddly, when Ludwig finally answered, he looked every bit as sleepy as Dakota.

“Vaht?  _Vaht_?” he demanded crossly.

“Would you mind knocking it off at _two in the flipping morning_?  The rest of us are trying to sleep!”

“But it vas _you_ who just voke _me_ up wis all zhat knockink!”

“You were playing piano, I could hear you upstairs!”

“No, I vas _shleepink_!”

“Well _somebody_ was banging out a symphony!”

Beethoven rubbed his temples.  “I vas deaf ven I vas alive, but in ze afterlife, my hearink is perfect!  Nobody vas playink ze piano!  You vere _dreamink_!”  He slammed the door before Dakota could object that angels didn’t dream.

But there it was again—soft and lilting, just like it had been that day when Dakota saw Cavendish for the first time.  And it came back the next night, and the next, until Dakota gave up on sleeping altogether.

 

 

When Cavendish’s latest demise involved choking on lobster tail, Dakota naturally assumed he was at another of his father’s fancy fundraising dinners.  Dakota had already saved Cavendish from one of these events, when Cavendish acquired fourth-degree burns on his head after falling face-first into a vat of boiling fondue.

Dakota was surprised, then, to find Cavendish in a ritzy restaurant, not at some networking shindig, but at a tiny candlelit table with one fellow diner.

A woman.

An attractive woman at that—she had long red hair, icy blue eyes, and an hourglass figure.  Could it be?

“Hildegarde, I must tell you you look lovely this evening,” Cavendish complimented her after a waiter took their orders.  “And if I do say so myself, I think the earrings I gave you last week flatter your face.”

Earrings?  Last week?

Of course Cavendish was dating.  It wasn’t strange.  In fact, it was stranger that he _hadn’t_ seen anyone in the time—almost a year now—that Dakota had acted as his guardian.  And, well, human men more frequently than not preferred the company of human women, so the fact that Hildegarde was female shouldn’t have been surprising either.

Dakota shook himself; Cavendish’s romantic life was none of his business.  That was up to the Bureau of Love, who got their own printouts from the Bureau of Prophecy to ensure that designated couples ended up together.  Truthfully, if Dakota hadn’t pursued guardianship, Love sounded like a pleasant position.  But he had chosen guardianship, and he had a job to do.

Right.  A job to do.  Like… now.

He flew to the kitchen, where he hoped to find Cavendish’s order written down somewhere so he could switch it with someone else’s, but noooooo, this was one of those places that prided themselves on their waitstaff being able to accurately deliver every order from memory.  What was the point of that?

He needed another plan.

The lobsters.  He needed, by some means, to ensure that there was no lobster tail to choke on.  And the tank was _right there_.

In physical form, he was able to somehow scoop up every last lobster in the tank.  Thank heaven that there were little rubber bands over their claws.  He was on his way out the back…

“Hey!  You!  What the hell are you doing?!”

Crap.  He’d been spotted.

“Setting these guys free!”  Of course, in order to say that, he had to actually do it.  He couldn’t just ditch the crustaceans in the dumpster outside now.  “Lots of people would argue that keeping them in a tiny tank like that where they’re just going to get eaten is animal cruelty!”  Well, lots of people would.  Personally, Dakota didn’t think the lobsters really cared too much; the souls he had seen that time he visited Lobster Heaven didn’t do anything besides sit around and eat algae.  But the sentence was true enough that Dakota was able to say it.

“You’re stealing!”

“I’m saving lives!”  He ran out the backdoor as fast as he could, fully expecting to be chased, but oddly, he wasn’t pursued.  Maybe the kitchen staff didn’t feel like gambling their lives over a psycho who stole lobsters.

Several blocks away, Dakota found a pond in a park that seemed like a decent place to release his haul.  He wasn’t sure if the salinity of the water was exactly right to keep them alive, but if it was really that big a deal, some guardian who specialized in saving lobsters would swoop in to fix it.  For the time being, Dakota was doing his job, and nothing more.

“Nothing more,” he said to himself as he cautiously yanked the rubber bands from a lobster’s claws.  Promptly, the lobster reached out and pinched him, hard.  “You’re not very grateful that I saved your life, you know that?”

 

 

A falling chandelier.  It wasn’t even the first one Cavendish had perished under, and Dakota suspected it wasn’t going to be the last, either.  However, it would be the first one that crushed him in front of an audience of hundreds of people.

Dakota felt like he must have missed something in the time he’d kept his distance from his charge.  Last he knew, Cavendish was aimlessly trying to get established after his role as a music teacher fell through.  But now?  Now there was a theatre packed to the brim with people dressed to the nines.  This wasn’t some community arts show.  This was a formal event.

Preventing the incident was fairly straightforward; all Dakota had to do was tighten the screws that had come loose during the concert.  It took him all of five minutes.  But he couldn’t bring himself to head back to heaven just yet.  He was just too curious to stay out of the loop.

He flew to the front of the music hall to see if there was any explanation to be had.  And, sure enough, a huge banner advertised, “Gregory Cavendish Inaugural Celebratory Concert.”  Apparently, Balthazar Cavendish’s father had won the gubernatorial election.  Was _this_ Cavendish’s big break?  Sure, it was exposure, but it seemed like something of a letdown that even Cavendish’s moment in the spotlight wasn’t really about him.

Indeed, Dakota realized as he perused a program he had swiped from the lobby, the repertoire did not consist of Cavendish’s usual songs.  The performance would open with “The Star-Spangled Banner,” followed by the state’s anthem, along with several odes to various monuments and landmarks found within the state.  There was a strong sense of pandering in this lineup, all set to glorify the new governor’s administration, and Cavendish was playing right along with every tune.

Every tune, that is, except for the second-to-last.

“The Shell Rebuilt” was the cryptic title, but Dakota stared at the italicized words underneath: _Original composition by Balthazar Cavendish, in dedication to the love that inspired it._

Love.

Dakota swallowed.  Well, just as he’d been unaware of how much Cavendish’s career had advanced, perhaps he had likewise failed to keep track of how the human’s relationship with Hildegarde was progressing.  He flew back to the auditorium to investigate and, sure enough, there she was in a luxurious box seat.  To her right was an empty chair, on the other side of which sat Cavendish’s mother, arms crossed and face stern; his father, the honoree of the whole evening, was in another box entirely, surrounded by people who were probably important.  To Hildegarde’s left sat a couple Dakota didn’t recognize, but since they looked sort of like her he suspected they might be her parents.  Hildegarde herself sat proudly in a long purple dress and white evening gloves.

He should’ve just left at that point.  He’d saved Cavendish from the chandelier already, and everything else in the theatre looked pretty safe.  He could go back to heaven and catch a movie or something with Milo, Zack, and/or Melissa.  He should have just flown home.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he dropped into the empty seat next to Hildegarde, still invisible as he listened to the performance.  Most of the songs were mediocre by Cavendish’s standards—they weren’t bad, but they felt stiff, stale, perhaps even bored.  The crowd didn’t notice, but then again, the crowd hadn’t heard Cavendish play in the solitude of his own home.  They didn’t know what his soul sounded like.

Then came “The Shell Rebuilt.”

Dakota could tell from the first few notes that this was different.  Cavendish’s hands gracefully plunked out a melody that started soft and melancholy, but then abruptly jumped into a fast-paced, slightly awkward, staccato beat.  It was unconventional—Dakota hadn’t heard anything like it in heaven or on earth—but it worked.  Then it transitioned back to the opening melody, but in a lower key, and slower than it was before.

Then came the part that really captivated the audience—the staccato rhythm resumed, in the same low key, then jumped up an octave, and then another, growing livelier and livelier with each jump.  By the end, he had the house tapping their feet along with the music, practically dancing in their seats.

Except, Hildegarde did nothing of the sort.

Dakota was confused—this was _her_ song, shouldn’t she be flattered beyond all measure?  While she did smile a bit, and nod, and press a finger to her chin, it didn’t really move her.  She accepted each refrain casually, as though she had expected nothing less.  Finally, the symphony concluded the way it had started, fading out peacefully, and the house applauded and cheered.  Hildegarde clapped modestly and crossed her arms in anticipation of the next and final song.

She knew it had been written for her, yet that fact meant nothing.

How hurt would Cavendish be if he could see her face?  Would it break him to know that the object of his heart took him for granted?  That a symphony that had surely taken countless hours of composition, in which he had invested his artistic spirit with such devotion, could so carelessly be forgotten?  How would he feel when she had little comment afterward?

That was when Dakota bolted back to heaven—he couldn’t watch the fallout when that happened.

 

 

Christmas Eve rolled around again, and with it another rescue.

Dakota was kind of surprised when he got the vision of the car accident—those barely happened anymore, now that self-driving cars had been highly competent for many years now, for the entirety of Cavendish’s life at the very least.  Plus, why was he all alone in the vision?  Shouldn’t Hildegarde have been with him on such a special occasion?  It didn’t make any sense.

Dakota descended to Earth and rewound time to investigate.

He found himself at a sort of outdoor Christmas festival, on fairgrounds that had been decked out with an array of old-fashioned decorations, albeit from a wide range of historical periods, from Victorian gingerbread houses to 1960s cartoon characters to mid-twenty-first-century light shows.  At least Cavendish wasn’t alone on Christmas Eve this year.  In fact, it seemed both of his parents were there, even if they didn’t speak to each other—his father was making his rounds with the electorate, promising them all sorts of improvements to the community now that he was in office, while Mrs. Cavendish and some fellow sponsors were speaking to the event’s organizers.

It seemed to be a cheery enough atmosphere.  But where was Cavendish?

Dakota flew into a large, lively tent, and sure enough, the place was filled with a dance floor where couples waltzed to festive music.  But Cavendish and Hildegarde weren’t among them.  No wait, Hildegarde was there—Dakota recognized her flowing hair and smug smile—but she was dancing with someone else, a shorter man who was certainly not Cavendish.  So where…?

Over there.

At the back of the tent, candlelit tables hosted a couple dozen people, sipping on eggnog and cider and eating sugar cookies.  Cavendish sat at one such table, and Dakota relaxed to see that he was in the company of three other men about his own age.  They talked and joked, and Cavendish participated, but he didn’t look happy.  Oh, he smiled, and laughed at appropriate times, but in his eyes was something solemn and distant, and he initiated little conversation.

He downed the last of his drink, ordered another, and guzzled that one too.  How many had he had?

“Hey Balthazar, you okay?” the man to his left asked casually.

Cavendish sat up straighter.  “I’m all right,” he told his friend in a dull voice, “just exhausted is all.  If I hadn’t ridden here with Nicholson, I’d probably head home already.  But… he seems to be enjoying himself, and I’d hate to ruin his fun.”

“Speaking of, where is Nick?”

“Back on the ski hill.”

“Tell you what.  I’ll tell him you caught another ride home, and you can borrow my car.  I’m staying in the ice hotel so I won’t need it till the day after tomorrow anyway.”  Cavendish’s friend held out a single car key, an old-fashioned metal one with teeth.  “Just get it back to me by Boxing Day and we’ll be good.  You remember how to drive it, right?  I showed you at the country club?”

Cavendish nodded.  “Thank you,” he said as he stood up and left.

Dakota followed Cavendish through the snowy festival grounds.  While the man’s posture seemed normal, Dakota realized that the footprints he left followed an erratic pattern.  He’d sway left, then right, then left again, until he reached a parking lot full of vintage automobiles—the oldest being a Model T Ford, the newest a 2012 Prius.  Some of the vehicles had ribbons on them, so whatever judging had been part of the evening’s festivities had taken place already.  Cavendish reached a Volkswagen Beetle—Dakota didn’t see the year posted anywhere, but he guessed it was probably from the 1970s or so—and shuffled into the driver’s seat.

Was he seriously about to drive an antique vehicle while drunk?  With ice on the roads?  Dakota felt his skin crawl as he phased through the passenger-side door into the front seat.  The car pulled out of the lot and drove away from the celebration.

During his last few centuries at the academy, Dakota had attended multiple seminars on the subject of impaired driving due to its prominence at that point in human history, and how many untimely deaths it led to.  It was one of the few situations in which physical manifestation in front of a human was advised—the most effective way to prevent the person from driving was to offer to drive instead, and frequently they were too sloshed to question or even remember what happened.

Cavendish tapped the gas, then the brake, then the gas again, jerking the vehicle and causing Dakota to flinch even though his spiritual form could not be injured.  Unfortunately, Cavendish would recognize Dakota in an instant if he were to appear, and anyway Dakota should have offered to drive back at the fairgrounds if he were going to go that route.

They approached the corner that Dakota recognized from his vision.

Then again… it was better late than never, right?  And given the fact that Cavendish apparently hadn’t thought about Dakota once since the incident at the train tracks, perhaps he really wouldn’t recognize Dakota if he were to appear out of nowhere.

One way to find out.  Dakota assumed his corporeal form.

“Cavendish, stop!”

Cavendish slammed on the brakes in alarm, and as Dakota flew through the windshield, he recalled too late one other detail of automobile safety from his training.

_Seatbelts_.

At least Cavendish had been wearing his, but that didn’t stop Dakota from being thrown a good ten or twenty feet in front of the car and landing, hard, on a patch of ice.

_Ouch_.

Dakota moaned as Cavendish jumped out of the driver’s seat and bolted towards the angel.  The force of that impact could have easily killed a human several times over, but there was, fortunately, no way to permanently destroy an angel’s form, be it physical or spiritual.

It still hurt really, really badly.

“Vinnie?  Is… is it really you?”

Crap.  Not only had Dakota’s plan been ill-thought-out, but Cavendish had recognized him instantly.  How was he supposed to explain this?

Dakota exhaled, his ribcage throbbing as he did so.  At least Cavendish was alive.

“Vinnie?  Vinnie, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you just fine,” Dakota told him as he accepted a hand up.

“You’re bleeding!”

Bleeding?  Dakota had often wondered if his physical form was internally like that of a human.  Apparently, the answer was yes.  He looked down at himself—his clothes were torn, and glass from the windshield was wedged into wounds all over his body.  Yep, he had blood.

“I’ll be fine,” Dakota assured him.  “But you!  The hell were you doing?  If I’d been a human, you would’ve killed me.  You almost killed yourself.  Why the hell would you drive intoxicated?”

At that, Cavendish looked away.

“Well?”

Cavendish still didn’t answer.  Dakota sighed.

“Look, we can talk about this later… I guess.  For now we’ve got other things to worry about.”

“Like the fact that you’re hurt!”

“I told you, don’t worry about it.  Angels always heal, sooner or later.  Let’s focus on getting you home.”

Cavendish turned and stared at the wreck behind them.  “That will need fixing.”

“I’ll call a garage and have it towed there.  We’ll get the windshield repaired.   _After_ we get you safe, warm, and sober.”

“I’m plenty warm.”

“That’s the alcohol in your system bringing more blood to your skin.  Ironically, it puts you at a greater risk of freezing to death.”  Hypothermia—another thing he’d been warned about at the academy.  “We’re what, half a mile from your apartment?”

“A quarter.”

“It’s probably faster to walk back than to find another ride.”  Dakota began to move in the right direction, but Cavendish didn’t follow.  “Come on, _now_.”

Cavendish finally took his eyes off of the car.  Tears laced the rim of his eyelid.  Dakota wanted to interrogate him right then and there, but it was probably best not to risk a breakdown of another sort.  At least Cavendish was finally moving.

Except, now it was Dakota who couldn’t look away.

Right there, on the other side of the broken windshield, a looming figure occupied the backseat.  It had no visible face, but it felt like it was staring right back at Dakota.  Had it been there this whole time?  Had Cavendish seen it?  No, that couldn’t be, surely he would have pointed it out to Dakota.

It climbed forward, over the front seat and through the windshield, where it stood on the hood of the car for a moment before evaporating into the night air.

“Vinnie?  Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

Dakota spun back around as a chill ran down his spine, a chill that he didn’t think was related to his injuries.  “Oh, I’m sure I’m hurt.”  Dangit, it sure would’ve been more convenient if he could lie and say he wasn’t.  “But I’m also sure I can’t bleed to death.  If I got hit by another car, I’d survive that too.  You, on the other hand…”

“All right then.”  Cavendish complicitly trudged away alongside Dakota.

 

 

The car was in the shop.  Cavendish had taken a cold shower to ease his nausea; Dakota had taken a hot shower to ease his aches.  Now they sat on the couch, Cavendish wrapped in a blanket, Dakota shirtless as Cavendish bandaged his wounds—unnecessary though it was, it was easier than arguing.  It stung when Cavendish plucked the glass out of the lacerations, but they had reached an agreement that Cavendish had to drink one sip of water for each shard he removed.

“Sorry!” Cavendish said when Dakota inhaled sharply at the touch of the tweezers, which shook in Cavendish’s still-buzzed hands.  “Are you sure we shouldn’t get you to the E.R. instead?”

“Completely.”

“But you’re in pain.”

“Again, not gonna kill me.”  Oddly, it was sort of comforting to feel any sensation, even a painful one, with this body—it was proof that he was really in the physical world.  In a way, one might even say he was _alive_.

“I’m surprised an angel can feel pain at all,” Cavendish mused.  “It seems like a flaw in the design.”

“One, nobody really ‘designs’ us, or our physical bodies,” Dakota contradicted him through gritted teeth.  “It’s pretty much just a coincidence that so many of us look like humans.  Some of us don’t look human at all.”  Perry, a guardian who had graduated about two hundred years before Dakota, sprang to mind.  “And two… we actually thought pain was a brilliant innovation when it first evolved.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well… you kick a plant, or break a piece off of a sponge, it doesn’t react.  It stays right where it is and keeps getting hurt,” Dakota explained.  “But about 500 million years ago, jellyfish evolved neurons, and lemme tell you, that was a game-changer!  Or at least, so they tell me.  I hadn’t actually been formed yet when it happened,” he admitted.  “Anyway, when something hurts a jellyfish, it moves away.  It knows something’s wrong.  That’s what pain is—a message that something is wrong.”

“Is it worth it, though?  If you can’t feel something is wrong, does it matter whether it is or not?”

“Honestly?  Probably not.  But that’s exactly my point,” Dakota said.  “In order for something to be wrong, it has to have been right in the first place.  Pain tells you you’ve lost something, but the only way to lose something is if you had it to begin with.  _Ow_.  Like… this… body,” Dakota grunted as Cavendish applied some kind of antiseptic to a scrape on his right shoulder.  Did Cavendish not believe that angels were immune to infection?  “Before my shoulder hurt, I never appreciated having a shoulder that _didn’t_ hurt.”

“I suppose I never really thought of it that way,” Cavendish told him.  “I just don’t see the logic in having anything at all if it’s just going to be taken away.”  Satisfied with his work, he put a final dressing on Dakota’s shoulder and set the tweezers down on the coffee table.  He sighed as he stood up.  “Is there anything else I can get you?  Some hot tea, or something… something stronger?”  His voice faltered as he realized he had jogged Dakota’s memory.

“You can get me an explanation!”  Anger that Dakota hadn’t felt for the last couple hours now bubbled to the surface.  “You never answered my question.  What the hell made you decide that driving drunk was a good idea?”

Cavendish looked down and closed his eyes, and Dakota thought he was about to attempt to wriggle out of explaining himself, until he confessed, “I never really… ‘decided’ that.”  He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.  “I was drunk, and I wanted to go home, and somehow it just never occurred to me that accepting my friend’s offer might not be wise.  Not that it’s any excuse, but I haven’t exactly been at my best mental capacity lately, even when I’m sober.  The last two days have been… rough.”  Cavendish swallowed.  “Did… did you see what happened?  Or how?”

Dakota shook his head.  “I’ve been trying to avoid spying on you.  It’s not easy.”

“Oh.  Well then.”  Cavendish sat down again.  “I, well, I’ve been… involved… with a lovely lady, Hildegarde.”

“Yeah, I knew that much,” Dakota said before he could think.

“The other night she broke up with me, in no uncertain terms.  And just like that, a potential future was severed.”

“Well, that’s her loss!  It sucks that she was a jerk, but—”

“She wasn’t a jerk!” Cavendish protested.  “The breakup was my fault, entirely.  It might be easier if it wasn’t my fault, or it might not be, I’m not sure.”  The tears were back, and one fell to his lap.

Curiosity got the better of Dakota.  “What didja do?”

“I… I kissed someone else.  Or, well, someone else kissed me—I wasn’t expecting it at all—but I certainly didn’t do anything to resist, and she saw the whole thing.  It was an old friend from my college years, someone with whom things would never work out, but it was nearly Christmas, we were tipsy—”

“Should’ve learned your lesson then!” Dakota interjected more harshly than he intended.

“—and we got carried away.  It was a lapse in judgment, Hildegarde caught us, and now she’s gone forever.”

“Okay, let’s say you’re right.  Let’s say she is gone forever,” Dakota said, an odd sense of relief that he couldn’t explain at all welling up inside him.  “There’s other fish in the sea.  Billions of them.  You could have a happy life with someone else.”

“You don’t understand,” Cavendish said coldly.  “Hildegarde was my only real option.”

“Why?”

“Because out of everyone I’ve ever seen in my entire life, she’s the only one both my parents approved of!”  Cavendish shook his head, exasperated.  “If someone was cultured enough for my mother, they were too stuck-up for my father.  If someone was talented enough for my father, they weren’t academically serious enough for my mother.  And on, and on, and on.  Only Hildegarde could make a good impression on both of them.  And I’ve entirely ruined my chances.”  He shuddered.  “Mother and Father don’t even know yet.  I’m terrified of what to tell them.”

“Wait a moment, _that’s_ what you’re worried about?  I thought you loved her!”

“This isn’t _about_ love!”

“So what, love matters less than making your parents happy?”

“Yes!”

Well, there was no comeback for that answer.

Cavendish clenched his fist.  “It’s unfortunate, but it’s how it is.  If I courted for love, I never would have… never _could_ have… been with Hildegarde in the first place,” he said uneasily.

“Why’s that?”

“Because Hildegarde is not… well, she isn’t my ‘type,’ you see.”  Cavendish scratched the back of his head.  “I… I don’t want you to judge me, I don’t know if angels care about this sort of thing...  I’m homosexual, you see.”  He looked straight at Dakota.  “Is that forbidden, in heaven?”

“What?  Of course not!” Dakota said, taken aback.  “Why would it?”

“I just suspected that if angels were so adamantly opposed to drinking, then perhaps you hold antiquated views on other matters as well.”

Making a mental note to clarify heaven’s position on alcohol later, Dakota assured him, “It’s never been forbidden, not for humans, and not for angels.  In fact, there’s really no such thing as a ‘straight’ angel, because we don’t technically come in male and female, biologically speaking.”

“Wait, so you aren’t…?”

Dakota shrugged.  “I mean, I’m a guy, but gender wasn’t invented in heaven.  It wasn’t until mortals introduced the concept to us that we started picking genders for ourselves.  At least, most of us did.  Older angels are sometimes too traditional.”

“Fascinating,” Cavendish said as he stared pensively into space.  “So heaven is supportive of any kind of love, then?”

Dakota wanted, _so badly_ , to tell him yes.  He didn’t want to say the next words.  But he knew if he didn’t tell the whole truth now, Cavendish would just keep asking until he revealed the less-pleasant details.  “Almost, but not quite.  We have rules… about not mixing angel with mortal.”  Dakota hung his head.

“Oh.  I see.”  Cavendish slid a few inches away from the angel.  “I suppose that makes sense, I mean they’re two separate species—”

“That’s not why,” Dakota said.  “Humans and mortals from other planets are permitted to mingle as they please, although most species still prefer the company of their own.  But when angels hook up with humans, or any other mortal, it gets… sketchy.”  How could Dakota really explain the issue?  “The physical universe runs on destiny, all right?  There’s prophecies about who has to marry whom, and when, and what children they’re supposed to have, and you just can’t monkey that up.  Once you get to heaven, though, you don’t have a predestined course in life.  It’s easy for angels to forget that Earth is different, so it’s best to just not allow us to be with humans at all.”

“So what you’re saying is, it doesn’t really matter what my parents or I think.  Either I’m destined to be with Hildegarde, or I’m not?” Cavendish asked.

“I guess so.  I can’t tell you which, because the Bureau of Prophecy only tells us guardians when people are supposed to die.  Romance is for the Bureau of Love.  All I can tell you is, your true love is definitely not an angel.”

“I see.”  Cavendish cleared his throat.  “Well, at least there’s one thing we have in common—you and I both understand why some love just can’t be.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”  Dakota pulled his shirt back on.

“Wait a moment… is that why you said you couldn’t associate with me?” Cavendish asked abruptly.  “Because the other angels might… might get the wrong idea?”

“We definitely don’t want them getting the wrong idea, but socialization with living humans is generally discouraged.  It keeps us from being objective, or something.”

“What if they didn’t know you were socializing with a human?”  Cavendish turned to face Dakota squarely.  “Do any other angels know you’re here tonight?  Are any likely to show up at random?”

“Not really.  They’ve all got other people to keep track of.”  Dakota frowned.  “What are you getting at, exactly?”

“I’m getting at the possibility of keeping your company right here, in the privacy of my own home.”  Cavendish took Dakota’s hand in his.  “Think about it.  You aren’t technically breaking any rules, so that’s not on your conscience, but nobody knows it and nobody will talk.”

Dakota’s breath caught.  “So you’d like me to visit sometime?”

“I wasn’t thinking just ‘sometime’,” Cavendish said in a rushed voice.  “I was thinking… now.  Tonight.  I probably wouldn’t admit this if I hadn’t been drinking, but Vinnie, I am _lonely_ tonight.  The second you leave, my brain is going to go right back to what a failure my love life is, and after I get to thinking about that…”  He shook his head.  “Vinnie, what would it take to make you stay?”

The truth flowed so freely from Dakota’s lips, it didn’t even occur to him to wish he could lie.  “All it would take is for you to ask.”

 

 

Cavendish had offered to take the couch so Dakota could sleep in the bed, but since Dakota didn’t need sleep at all, it wouldn’t have felt right.

“I can still watch over you, if you like,” he had offered.

“I would like that.  If you could just… just stay until I fall asleep, I will sleep very well.”  Cavendish chuckled a little bit.  “My very own angel watching over me.”

And so Dakota had sat vigil while Cavendish climbed into bed.  Dakota even tucked in the human.  For all the tears that had been shed this evening, it was reassuring to watch Cavendish drift off with a smile on his face.

Dakota lay down next to Cavendish, and found himself humming the same song he’d sung last year, the one about sleigh bells and sleigh rides and riding together… Well, they weren’t in a sleigh tonight, but the cozy thought danced in his head as vividly as sugar plums.

He wasn’t going to fall asleep like this.  He’d head back to the couch, eventually, when he grew tired of watching over Cavendish… but for now lying where he was just felt so safe, so right…

That could very well have been the first night in his life that he fell asleep by accident.

 

 

Dakota awoke to the sound of piano music.

This time, it wasn’t “Für Elise,” and it wasn’t a carol.

It was “The Shell Rebuilt.”

Over and over, more vibrantly each time, a thousand times better than it had been the night of the concert.  Dakota didn’t even process the fact that he had been sleeping in Cavendish’s bed, or that the pianist had somehow managed to slip out without waking him up.  He just jumped up and dashed to the living room.

Cavendish had just played the final notes when he looked up and saw Dakota.  “Vinnie!  I… Merry Christmas!” he said clumsily.

“That’s a nice tune,” Dakota said.

“Yes… about that…”  Cavendish coughed, flustered.  “I suppose you should know.  It’s a composition I spent some time working on.  I started… well, I started that day you saved me from the train.”

Dakota’s eyes widened.  “You mean…?”

“It’s an ode, all right?  An ode to my angel.  Only I couldn’t call it that, because, well, you told me not to tell the other humans about angels, and I tried to pretend you didn’t exist, really and truly, but these notes kept playing in the back of my mind and I had to write them down…”

“You wrote that song for me.”

“I wasn’t going to, honestly, but—”

Dakota smiled back at him.  “It’s perfect.”

Cavendish blushed.  “You really think so?”

“I think it’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”

Angels didn’t lie.


	4. Life Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dakota becomes painfully aware that he has a conflict of interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long... hoping I can make up for it in length! I haven't exactly edited this as thoroughly as I should've because I really wanted to get it out there... subsequent chapters are probably gonna be shorter.

From that point on, Dakota dropped in on Cavendish fairly regularly.  As long as they didn’t leave Cavendish’s apartment, it was virtually impossible that they would be seen.  Not that they were doing anything forbidden—it was pretty much the same stuff Dakota would’ve been doing in heaven anyway.  They watched movies, they ordered pizza, they played cards.  Once they built an impressive house of cards that reached the ceiling of the room, and Dakota was just a tiny bit disappointed that he couldn’t go brag to Milo or any of his other friends.

Sometimes they weren’t even doing anything _together_ , exactly.  Cavendish still had pistachio-related work to attend to, and if Dakota happened to have saved him recently, there was an incident report to write up for the Bureau.  Yet even working side-by-side in silence, just knowing that his human was present and safe and _happy_ made for a pleasant evening.

(Of course, there were nights when Cavendish had work to do and Dakota didn’t, and while Dakota enjoyed those nights together as well, he found himself getting antsy when Cavendish was _too_ focused.  He might make faces, or don goofy hats, or eat chips as loudly as possible to see if he could break the man’s attention.  He didn’t know why he kept bugging Cavendish on purpose, but despite the intensity of the mortal’s eyebrow-scowls, there was always a tiny smile that tugged at the corner of his lips, and however annoyed he got, he never once told Dakota to leave.)

The best nights were the ones Cavendish would spend at his piano.  He might play “The Shell Rebuilt”, but he also demonstrated other compositions he was working on, and Dakota would find himself absorbed entirely in the melodies, even the ones Cavendish hadn’t quite worked the rough patches out of.  At one point Cavendish tried to teach Dakota to play, and he was so horrendously bad at it that they both laughed for a solid five minutes.  Well, there was a reason Dakota had never considered working with the Bureau of Choir.

“I’m sure you’ve got some musical aptitude in you,” Cavendish insisted after Dakota had again misplaced Middle C.  “I mean, you’ll still be alive in a million years if that’s how long it takes you, yes?”

He’d meant the comment to be tongue-in-cheek, and Dakota had giggled appropriately, but something about those words nagged at him.

A million years.  Of course Dakota would still be alive; every single angel who had ever come into being was still alive.  And Cavendish would also be alive, in a way, although mortals in general were so bad at viewing anything with an eternal perspective that Cavendish himself probably didn’t think he would be.  Did Cavendish really have the patience to spend a million years slugging away at music lessons for a decidedly untalented angel?  In a million years, would Cavendish even remember his time on Earth?  Dakota had befriended various humans and hominids over the ages, but he’d never really kept in contact long enough to figure out how spending epochs in paradise could change a person.  Would he lose touch with Cavendish just as he had lost the Neanderthals from thousands of years ago, or the _Australopithecus_ from millions of years before that?  The thought was unbearable, but why?  Wouldn’t there be some more highly-evolved race by then that would be even more fun to interact with?

What made Cavendish alone stand out amongst the eons?

 

 

“Block wants to see you.”  Brick said the words casually, but his eyes betrayed a hint of intrigue, which sent a wave of unease through Dakota’s skin.

Doing his best to keep his expression neutral, Dakota slid into his superior’s office, where Savannah just so happened to be waiting, her arms crossed.

“Hampshire!  Care to explain yourself?” Block asked.

“Let’s see, I’m an angel, my name is _Dakota_ , I’m five million years old, I work for the Bureau of Guardianship—”

“Enough funny business!  Reports of your unprofessional conduct have come to my attention.”  Block looked at Savannah, who nodded sternly.

“What, is this about forgetting it wasn’t casual Friday last Thursday?  Because I thought you already knew about that.”

“It’s not and you know it isn’t,” Savannah told him.  “I don’t know why I put this off so long, but what the hell were you thinking?”

“Are you going to tell me what I did, or do I have to keep guessing?”  It wasn’t time to panic yet.  No hard-and-fast rules had been breached, and the guidelines he’d been bending had happened far out of Savannah’s line of vision, or anyone else’s.

“Fine, since you’re obviously that dense!”  Block reached into a drawer and withdrew a pearl about the size of a baseball—an Orb of Recapitulation.  “Savannah has so generously lent me a couple of her memories.  Let’s review, shall we?”

Before their eyes, the crash from Christmas Eve replayed in third-person—the Orb didn’t reveal Dakota’s sudden materialization (evidently because from this angle Savannah couldn’t see the passenger seat), just the car braking all of a sudden, Dakota flying through the windshield, and Cavendish stepping out of the car and hurrying to Dakota’s side.  Even though he was completely healed by now, the places that had been injured that night felt like they had been ripped open all over again for a second.  Cavendish and Dakota argued inaudibly for a few seconds before shuffling out of sight.

The memory ended.

“Well?” asked Block impatiently.

“What were you doing when you saw that?” Dakota asked Savannah.

“Saving someone else from that same festival from DUI’ing in another one of those damn cars.  By _hiding their keys_ until they sobered up.  You know, so they _wouldn’t see me_?”

“Well, hooray for you, but some of us didn’t think of that.  I was just trying to do my job!”

“So you got in the car _with_ him, instead of offering to drive?”  Savannah threw up her arms in disgust.

“Hey, I stopped him, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t stop him from seeing your corporeal form!”  Block slammed a hand down on his desk.  “You don’t think he’s going to question how you survived that?  And then you just up and walked away with him!”

“I had to make sure he got home safely!”

“Oh, right… speaking of his safety… play the next memory!”

It was Cavendish, sitting at the top of a ski lift.  In the seat next to him, Dakota whispered something in his ear before disappearing.  When Cavendish dismounted from the lift, instead of turning left onto one of the easy-to-moderate slopes, he turned right onto a slope marked with three black diamonds, with predictable consequences: He nearly shot straight off a cliff, stopped only by a fence of especially durable orange netting.

There was just one problem with the above scenario: It never happened.

Oh, Dakota remembered the ski slopes all right; he remembered having to rewind time and put the fence there before Cavendish could meet his demise.  In fact, he’d chronicled the whole thing in a report that had landed promptly on Block’s desk the following morning.  He’d intentionally avoided letting Cavendish witness this intervention specifically so his account would be entirely clean.  That much was true.  But Dakota had absolutely not been with Cavendish at the top of the ski slope.

“That’s not me!” Dakota protested.  “I never would’ve told him—”

“You might not have, but that’s clearly your likeness!”  Savannah studied the sphere as the scenario looped back to the start and played again.  “I… I have to admit I’ve never seen anything like it myself.”  Her voice faltered; it was the first time Dakota had ever seen her act uncertain about something.

“So what, I have a doppelganger?  That isn’t my fault!”

“Human imaging technology is advancing every day!” Savannah said.  “For whatever reason, someone decided to make a hologram or similar visual of you, and that visual just so happens to be in proximity to Balthazar Cavendish.  In order to replicate your appearance that accurately, _someone_ would have had to study your form, your mannerisms, possibly even your voice, if whatever that… _thing_ is was speaking to Cavendish directly.”

“Tell me something,” Block said bluntly.  “How many times has Balthazar Cavendish seen your physical form?”

Damn.  Dakota had lost count.  “I’m… I’m not really sure,” he admitted.

“That’s some sloppy bookkeeping!”  Block shook his head.  “You volunteered to cover a volatile case, but that doesn’t excuse you from keeping track of shit!  Tell me something else… has any mortal _besides_ Balthazar Cavendish seen your physical form?”

Dakota thought for a minute.  Technically, lots of humans had seen him in various restaurants that night he had attempted to meet Balthazar for dinner.  But he had backed up the time stream after each incident, so in this timeline, none of them had seen him.  Did that count?

“I might’ve been spotted in a garden supply store when I saved him from a wasp,” Dakota answered.  “Oh yeah, and I guess the kitchen staff at this one place saw me steal their lobsters—it was for the greater good!” he said as Savannah slapped her forehead.  “But I would have just looked like any other human, so I doubt anyone remembers me.  No other mortal would recognize me if they saw me again, I know that much.”

“Well at least you know something,” Block grunted.  “If it weren’t for the fact that nobody else wants his case, I’d seriously consider reassigning you.  You’ll have to report to the Bureau of Law anyway.”

“What?  Why?”

“I suspect there’s more to this case than you’re letting on, but I can’t penalize you for a hunch.  I _can_ , however, fine you up to ten feathers for failing to document the save you made on Christmas Eve.  And believe me, you’ll get the full sentence.”

Shit, Block had Dakota on that front.

Block wrote out the summons, and in shame, Dakota carried it to the nearest Law office.  Losing the feathers wasn’t fun, but it was far from enough to keep him from flying, and it wasn’t permanent.  All in all, things could have gone a lot worse.  He’d be able to forget all about this incident tomorrow, or maybe even tonight.

After all, tonight Cavendish was ordering Chinese takeout, and he’d promised extra egg rolls.

 

 

One morning, as Dakota chowed down on some scrambled eggs as a means of distracting himself from the temptation to bug Cavendish, he noticed that Cavendish seemed to lack his usual concentration.  The man would type something, sigh, delete what he just typed, and start over.  Finally, he slammed his laptop shut and shuffled into the kitchen.

“Penny for my thoughts?” Cavendish asked as he poured himself a bowl of cereal.

Dakota was pretty sure that wasn’t the expression, but he indulged Cavendish anyway.  “What’s up?  You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“It’s this damn letter!” Cavendish explained.  “My mother’s marketing team have discovered an unexpected demand for an obscure pistachio relative that grows only in one small region of Belize.  She wishes to acquire the local farming cooperative, so she asked me to write and make them a generous offer.  Of course, once she acquires it, she’ll tear down _who knows_ how many acres of rainforest to expand the plantations, inflate the prices so that the locals will be unable to afford the nut anymore, and advertise it as a balderdash ‘superfood’ to gullible dieters here in the U.S.  Nothing good will come of this acquisition, but I’ve been tasked with negotiating for it.”

“Well… who says you have to be good at negotiating?”  Dakota sprinkled extra salt on his eggs.  “You could just write a crappy letter and let the chips fall where they may.”

“By Jove, I believe you’re on to something!  But I don’t know how deliberately bad I could make it.”

“You could let me write it!”  Dakota bounced into the living room and flipped open the laptop.  “It’ll take me like, ten minutes tops.  Less time than it takes you to shower.  And after that… it kinda sounds like a ‘ditch day’ to me!  Yo, what do you say?”

Cavendish grinned wryly.  “Well, I can’t actually believe I’m saying this, but all right!  Ditch day it is!”  He paused.  “But… what do you want to do instead?”  He glanced out the window; it was actually an unseasonably warm, sunny day, and Dakota suspected the cabin fever was getting to him.

“We could probably leave the house today,” Dakota mused, even though he was gripped by the paranoia that Savannah’s prying eyes might not be far away.

“But what about the danger of being recognized?”

“I just need a handy disguise.  Whattaya got lying around here?”

Cavendish opened a closet and pulled out a box of random accessories—hats and mittens and so forth—but Dakota’s eyes landed on a single pair of sunglasses with gold frames.

“Hey Cav, what do you think?”

 

 

It was a fine day for messing around.

True, it was late January and thus still chilly, but that just meant they had the park to themselves—hence, less risk of being spotted.  They rowed out to the center of the lake, they fished, they rode a tandem bike, they took selfies by the marble statues—no agenda, no schedule, just a couple of guys shirking the day away.  They even went bungee jumping off the bridge and, to Dakota’s surprise, he never once had to back up the time stream to rescue his charge.  He knew that after being reprimanded at the Bureau, he should be taking as little risk of being spotted as possible, but Cavendish was enjoying himself so much, it was worth a few more feathers even if they did get in trouble.

It was a slight letdown when it got late, Cavendish grew hungry, and Dakota had to assume his incorporeal form while the human picked up some sandwiches for dinner, but to his credit, Cavendish ran the errand as quickly as possible, and snagged a limburger sub for Dakota even though Cavendish personally despised the smell of the cheese.  Because the temperature was dropping, they wrapped themselves in a blanket—Dakota, being an angel, didn’t need protection from the cold, but he still produced enough body heat that Cavendish was warmer this way—and found a spot out of the wind to look at the night sky as stars emerged.

“Yes, no, no, yes, technically yes but no, no, yes, no…” Dakota said through a mouthful of cheese as he pointed at different stars.

Cavendish wrinkled his nose.  “What the devil are you on about?”

“You’re about to ask where all the aliens are, right?  Those are the stars that have sentient life forms around them.”

“So that’s quite a few that do.  But what made you assume I’d ask?”

Dakota shrugged.  “In the movies, that’s all humans seem to wonder about when they’re stargazing.  Something about whether they’re alone in the universe, or something.”

Cavendish plucked an olive from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth.  “I suppose until fairly recently, I took loneliness for granted.”

Dakota laughed uneasily.  “Yeah, so about that… it looks like you took my advice about finding some human friends.  And even though it didn’t work out, at least you gave the whole dating thing a try.  I’m proud of you.”

“I was moderately successful, you could say.”

“Hey, at least it ended where it did,” Dakota said earnestly.  “Before, y’know, marriage or kids or whatever.”

Cavendish lay flat on his back, dragging Dakota down with him since they were still tethered via the blanket.  “You simply had to remind me,” he groaned.

“What?  You dodged that bullet.  There’s nothing to remind you of.”

“It’s scarcely over!  The next time my mother meets an eligible bachelorette, she’ll send her my way, and then my father won’t like her, so he’ll introduce me to a different lady, and—”

“Hold up a moment!”  Dakota squirmed a little bit to loosen the blanket, but it didn’t help.  “Don’t they know you don’t bat for that team?”

“They bloody well know, they just bloody well don’t care!”  Cavendish shook his head.  “They want me to be with someone, publically at least, who can carry on the family lineage.”

Dakota frowned.  “There are men… human men… who can do that.  They’re a minority, but they’re there.”

“Tell that to Mother and Father!”

“And with modern medical technology… cloning, gamete conversion, whatnot… you could still have a child with one of the men who naturally can’t.”  Dakota caught himself as he remembered something Cavendish said in a different timeline.  “If you want to be a dad at all!  It’s not like it’s mandatory!  And don’t say you’re any different just because your parents this or your parents that.  If they wanted grandkids, they shoulda had more kids to up their chances.”

Cavendish sat up again and drew his knees to his chest.  “I suppose my greatest fear in having a child is that I might not be very kind to them.”

“What?  You’re great with kids!  You used to give them piano lessons for a living, right?”

“Sure, but those were not my children.  If I had a child and saw that they reminded me of myself, I’d go to great lengths to repress the resemblance.  It’s just what people do, it seems.”

Dakota swallowed, putting two and two together.  “Is that what your parents did?”

Cavendish chuckled darkly.  “It is indeed.  I wasn’t allowed sweeties as a child for fear that I’d inherited my father’s metabolism—”

Dakota choked at that.  “That definitely isn’t what happened!”

“As for my mother, I was forbidden from reading romance novels lest such idle pastimes distract me from my objectives in life the way they distracted her.  Seeing as I’ve still fallen short of those objectives, perhaps even stricter regulations would have been warranted.”

“You think you should’ve had _more_ rules?”

“I don’t know what I think!  But that’s exactly my point.  Parenting is hard.  Not everyone is cut out for it.”

Dakota licked relish off of his pinkie.  “You humans should just do what the angels do.”

“Well, when you’re mortal, simply not having children isn’t a sustainable model for the population!”

“That’s not what I meant!  Angels have children!”  Dakota managed to wriggle free of the blanket enough to look Cavendish square in the face.

Cavendish’s eyes widened.  “Wait so you… you _can_ die?” he asked uncertainly.

“Naw, we don’t die, but heaven is an infinite realm, so it’s not like we can overpopulate it.  Plus, the number of sentient mortals in the universe keeps growing, so we have to keep expanding to accommodate them all.  It’s just that raising the fledglings is a job left for the folks who are actually good at it.”  Dakota scratched his head.  “To tell you the truth, I never really thought about whether I’d be good at it either.  But anyway, it’s not my career.  The Bureau of Nurture handles all that.”

“So if you had a child… a ‘fledgling’ as you called it… you’d just drop it in with the Bureau of Nurture and forget it ever existed?”  Cavendish looked strangely horrified.

“Well… sure.”

Cavendish frowned.  “ _Do_ you have any fledglings?  Or… did you?  Wait a moment, how exactly would you go about procuring one in the first place?”

“Same as you, pretty much.”  When Dakota realized Cavendish was blushing an adorable shade of pink, he just had to rub it in a little more.  “You see, when two angels love each other very very much…”

“Yes yes, I understand quite well!”  Flustered, Cavendish added, “So, erm, have you then?  Loved another angel ‘very very much’?”

“Yes but no.  We’re only fertile like one day every million years or so, and while I’ve gotten lucky, I haven’t gotten that lucky.  So no kids.”

“Were you actually… _in_ love with any of your encounters?  Oh, sorry, I don’t wish to pry!”  Cavendish clapped a hand over his mouth.

“It’s cool.  I mean, they were attractive and all, but it never worked out.”

“Looks like we understand each other well in that regard,” Cavendish sighed.  “The only difference is you don’t have anyone breathing down your neck.  Perhaps your Bureau of Nurture is a sound idea, even if never knowing your parents does sound a bit sad.  At least that way you’re free to love as you wish.”

“All right, you know what?  Level with me for just a minute here.”  Dakota removed his sunglasses; maybe it was sort of silly to be wearing them after sunset anyway.  “Why do your parents’ opinions even factor into this equation?  It’s your love life, not theirs!”

“Well, there are rules to everything!  You know that!  Imagine if you were in love with a human.  Let’s say, for some reason, you could _only_ love a human.  You told me yourself heaven would oppose it.”

“That’s… that’s different,” Dakota said lamely.

“It no different at all!”

“Bad things can happen when an angel hooks up with a mortal!  Especially if the mortal is still alive.  It can have unpredictable physical effects on the mortal—I’m talking like melting your eyeballs or turning your digestive tract inside-out—or even kill you, it can create abominations like nephilim, and at the very least, it’ll definitely interrupt your earthly destiny!  We have to let that play out exactly the way it was meant to.”

“How is appeasing destiny any different from appeasing one’s parents?”

Dakota looked down.  “It… it just is, all right?”  He twirled a blade of grass around his finger and yanked it up.  “Stuff that comes out of the Bureau of Prophecy is infallible, but your parents don’t know anything about how the universe works.  Why do you even care what they think?”

Cavendish grew very quiet for a moment, then said softly, “I suppose I care what they think, because _they’re_ the only ones who care what _I_ think, let alone what I do, or even whether I live or die.”  He laughed bitterly.  “When I told the friend who lent me his car on Christmas Eve that I’d been in a wreck, he didn’t care whether or not I’d been hurt, he just wanted to know if his blasted car was damaged.  None of my other friends cared at all.”

“I cared!” Dakota protested, even though it made him feel shallow and selfish.

“Yes, but caring is your job, is it not?”

A cold gust of wind blew over them in that moment, and as much as Dakota wanted to contradict Cavendish, he couldn’t, because technically Cavendish was right: It _was_ Dakota’s job to care.  Would it matter to Cavendish if he knew that Dakota had volunteered for the position?  Would it matter that Dakota had reasons to care about Cavendish that had nothing to do with his work?  Could Dakota tell Cavendish what those reasons even were?

Did Dakota even know?

 

 

The Valentine’s Day banquet was held at the Governor’s Mansion, and Cavendish was obligated to attend.

They had discussed the possibility of Dakota accompanying him—incognito of course—but decided against it, at least until Dakota could scout out the place and verify that no other angels would be in the vicinity.

“I’ll leave it to your discretion whether or not you think it safe to materialize,” Cavendish had told Dakota.  “I’m sure you could covertly do so outside, or in the men’s room, should you wish to partake of the copious offerings of decadent confections.”

“Hey hey hey, I got an idea, you should totally pick out like the biggest, most calorie-laden cupcake you can find and eat it _right_ in front of your dad, right?” Dakota suggested.  “To make up for all the ones he wouldn’t let you eat when you were a kid?  And he couldn’t do a thing to stop you ’cause all the cameras will be on him and he won’t wanna look bad!”

Cavendish simply shook his head.  Dakota wasn’t sure if he didn’t find it that amusing, or if he just didn’t have the nerve to defy his father so blatantly, even after all these years.  Either way, the scenario was probably funnier in Dakota’s mind than it would be in real life.

Still, it would have at least been more interesting than any of the entertainments the soiree had to offer.  The affair looked dull and dry, as people spent more time networking than eating or dancing, and were it not for the refreshments, Dakota would have had little interest in materializing at all.  As it happened, though, materializing was not an option: Another angel was present.

The other angel descended from the sky (well, the ceiling) with a strange level of fanfare, considering he had no reason to believe anybody could see him.  Heart-shaped rainbows cascaded around him as if he were a prism or maybe a disco ball, and his halo pulsed in the rhythm of a heavenly anthem that seemed to emanate from every surface in the room.  The angel himself appeared chubby and childish, and wore only a white loincloth and a belt that strapped his bow and quiver to his back.

A _putto_.

Well, it was Valentine’s Day.  Putti were often busy this time of year.  But one would have expected them to appear in more sincere venues—fine restaurants, singles’ clubs, make-out points, that sort of place.  Surely nobody at this banquet was looking to get _laid_ , right?  Then again, what the people at the banquet were looking for had nothing to do with what the Bureau of Love had planned.  Putti had their orders just as guardians had theirs.

That was when the putto spotted Dakota and flapped over.

“Hey, you’re from the Bureau of Guardianship, aren’t you?” he asked in a voice that seemed kind of gruff for such a boyish figure.  “The name’s Buford, Bureau of Love!”

“Dakota.  Yeah, I’m a guardian.”

“Is someone gonna die?”

“Hell, I hope not!  But with my charge you never know.”

“Who are you here for?”

“Balthazar Cavendish.  He’s the tall guy—”

“I know who he is!”  Buford grinned.  “That’s my guy, too!  What a nifty coincidence.”

Dakota sputtered.  “Wait, Cavendish is supposed to fall in love _tonight_?  But who would he even…?”  His voice trailed off as he realized he didn’t need Buford to answer the question.

Hildegarde and a couple of her friends literally waltzed over to the table where Cavendish and two other men were sitting.

Dakota’s stomach tightened.  No, that couldn’t be it.  That ship had sailed.  Hildegarde wanted nothing to do with Cavendish.  But looking over the putto’s shoulder at the clipboard in his hands confirmed Dakota’s darkest fear.

“Whoa, now, that can’t be right!” Dakota insisted.  “Hildegarde hates him.  He told me.”

“She might hate him now,” Buford said as he pulled a small bottle from a fold in his loincloth, “but wait till I’m done with her!  According to the Bureau of Prophecy, they get married two years from now and have three kids, and one of those kids has two kids, and one of those kids becomes president of the new world order or something.  So I gotta make sure they get together.”

“Wait just a second.”  Dakota examined Buford’s quiver.  “You don’t even have any arrows!”

“Oh yeah, the bow’s just for tradition.  I had my archery privileges revoked, about two hundred years ago.  Lucky there’s other tricks.”

Curiosity got the better of Dakota.  “Why’d they do that?”

“My aim was off.  I was supposed to make this teacher fall in love with this construction worker, but I missed so she fell in love with her desk instead.  I didn’t want the guy to get lonely, so I made him fall for a milk carton instead.  My boss was pissed, but they weren’t destined to have any kids, so the Bureau confiscated my arrows and then let it slide.”

“A _milk carton_?  Seriously?”  It ought to have been funny, but instead Dakota felt a brief but distinct flash of rage.  A human could fall in love with a milk carton and it was all fine and dandy, but if that same human fell in love with an angel it was suddenly wrong?

“I panicked, all right?” said Buford.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to give these people their potions.”  He scampered off before Dakota could say another word.

Dakota flew to the men’s room and became corporeal.  He had to think, fast.  He couldn’t let the potion pass Cavendish’s lips.  Even if it was prophecy, it was _wrong_ , he could feel it.  Cavendish and Hildegarde didn’t have it in them to love each other, not really.  But heaven didn’t really care about that.  As long as they thought they loved each other and fulfilled their destiny, all was well.  The Bureau of Love were just as bad as Cavendish’s parents.

But how to stop it?

Well… the most obvious way for Buford to administer the potion would be to slip it into their drinks.  But presumably, a strange man in a loincloth would attract more attention than would be ideal, so he couldn’t just go to their table and sneak it in when their backs were turned.  Dakota sprinted for the kitchen, reasoning that Buford must have added the potion behind closed doors.

His eyes darted around, until he saw it—a bottle of Cavendish’s favorite wine, with Buford’s vial lying empty beside it.  Putti could be so sloppy sometimes; a guardian would never get away with leaving evidence like that.  Dakota picked up the vial—it had a heart with a giant H etched into the glass.  Yes, this had to be it.

It was simple now—all Dakota had to do was take the bottle and dump it down the sink before anyone saw him.  Except, it occurred to him just as he was about to do so that the drain probably connected to the city water supply.  If that was the case…  Dakota didn’t know how exactly the potion worked.  Maybe nothing would happen.  Or maybe some random soul who didn’t even know Hildegarde would fall in love with her instead.  Or maybe everyone who ingested some would fall for Hildegarde, Cavendish included, and Dakota’s efforts would be for nothing.  He couldn’t risk it.

He hid the contaminated wine bottle inside his jacket and stepped outside, where Cavendish eagerly introduced “Vinnie” to all of his acquaintances, Hildegarde included.  She seemed different tonight—the way she stared at Cavendish from time to time made it clear that Buford was at least successful in leading her to infatuation with the pianist.  Well, that was her problem.  Dakota couldn’t have helped it; he had no way of knowing which drink was hers.  He still felt kind of bad that she was now in love with someone who didn’t love her back, but humans were strong.  She would adapt.

She asked Cavendish to dance, and he did oblige—but as soon as the song was over he marched back to the table.  To Dakota’s surprise, he extended his arm to the angel, inviting him in for the next number.

“I was going to ask you before,” Cavendish explained as they returned to the floor.  Dakota really wasn’t much better at dancing than he was at playing piano, but at least with Cavendish leading he could fake it.  “But she was too quick.  Flattering, yet still disappointing.  I wanted to share the dance with you.  I couldn’t very well turn her down and then ask you instead.  Etiquette and all that.”

“D’aww.”  Dakota spun around in Cavendish’s arms in imitation of what the couples around them were doing.  “Maybe in a million years I’ll get the hang of this, too.”

“You’re doing just fine,” said Cavendish encouragingly.  Light from the chandelier overhead seemed to give him his own halo, and his breath was warm and sweet, so sweet that Dakota wondered if he really had taken his guardian’s advice and eaten a cupcake.

Yes, the crisis was averted.  After the banquet was over, Dakota would just return to heaven and bury the bottle deep inside his apartment where nobody would ever find it.

For now, though, it seemed to burn against his skin.

 

 

“We need to talk,” Amanda said just as Dakota was about to leave the café.  “Just Dakota!” she called to Milo, Melissa, and Zack.  “Angel business.”  She pulled him through the “Employees Only” door and led him to her managerial office at the back.  Dakota had never actually seen her office; it was meticulous, with cookbooks lined up along the shelves, plants positioned exactly five inches out from each of the corners, and seven pencils (sharpened to be precisely equal in length) arranged in a cup on her desk.

“Nice digs,” Dakota commented as she gestured for him to have a seat.

Amanda didn’t waste time with small talk.  “It’s about the mortal you’re guarding,” she said bluntly.

“Cavendish?  What do you want with him?”

“It’s not what _I_ want, it’s what _you_ want that concerns me!”  Amanda closed her eyes, squeezed a fist, then exhaled slowly.  “You’re in love with him.”  She said it so confidently, so factually, that for a split second Dakota believed her.  But that was ridiculous.  He had to set her mind at ease.

He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Why couldn’t he tell her he wasn’t in love with Cavendish?

He gasped as realization came to matter.

“I… I am.  I’m in love with Cavendish,” he choked out, the bona fide truth.  How had Amanda seen it before he had?

“Yes, you are.  It’s been quite clear for some time now, to me at least.  You’d better hope against all hope none of the other angels catch on.  As your friend, I _have_ to warn you.  I’m almost, almost surprised your other friends haven’t figured it out.  But I think I know why.”  She picked a pencil from the cup and inspected it for flaws.

“Is it because up until now _I_ hadn’t figured it out?”  Seriously, trying to think through the implications of this discovery all while talking to Amanda was really hard.  He needed time to process.

“It’s because they’ve never been in your shoes!”

Of course.  “Except for Milo,” Dakota reminded her.

Amanda sighed and shook her head.  “No.  Not even him.”

“Look, I know it’s tougher on you to keep things on the DL, but—”

“Tougher?  No, quite the opposite!  It’s much, much, _much_ easier keeping our secret now than it was back then.”

“Back… when?”

Amanda put the pencil back in the cup.  “Penalties for relations between angels and mortals in heaven are one thing.  But when Milo was still living his earthly life, it was… different.”  She swallowed.  “We… we risked everything.  Looking back I can’t believe we took the risks we did.”

Dakota scratched his head.  “How would you have known Milo when he was alive?”

Amanda laughed hollowly.  “Dakota, do you _really_ think I’ve spent eternity running the Cronus Donut?”  She leaned across the desk.  “I have other credentials, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sure, no doubt, I just… wait a minute... are you saying you used to…?”

Amanda nodded affirmatively.  “Bureau of Guardianship, nearly one hundred thousand years of service.  And then I had to resign,” she said simply.

“You used to guard _Milo_?”

“A volatile case if ever there was one.  Which has me wondering if this is a coincidence, or it’s just a thing that always happens when one angel is assigned one human.”  She frowned pensively.  “We thought we could hide our relationship as long as we needed to.  We were _lucky_ that the Bureau didn’t find out more than they did, and all it cost me was my job.  If they knew everything, it could have been… much uglier.”

“Well, but it’s better now, you said so yourself!”

“That’s _exactly_ my point!”  Amanda stood up.  “Dakota, you and Cavendish can avoid a worse fate simply by waiting.  You can spend eternity together, literally forever, but only if you’re careful _now_!  You should get reassigned as soon as possible, before you can talk yourself out of it.  Do _not_ look back.  Forget he even exists until he dies for real.  After that… follow your heart.  Just don’t let them find out.”

Dakota shook his head violently.  “No.  No, I can’t do that.  I’ll never be able to forget he exists.  He’s… well, he’s _Cavendish_!  What are you gonna do?”

“Your _job_ , that’s what you’re going to do!” Amanda shot back.  “You might not think so now, but if this keeps up, you’ll break more and more rules.  His whole destiny is at stake!”

It was almost as if she knew about the potion hidden away in Dakota’s apartment.

Dakota stood up and shoved his chair under the desk at an awkward angle that made Amanda cringe.  “‘Destiny’ is a word I’m getting really, really tired of hearing!” he said as he stormed from the room.

 

 

“C’mon, I love your symphonies!” Dakota egged Cavendish on as the mortal’s hands hovered hesitantly over the keyboard.

“Well it’s not a ‘symphony,’ really,” Cavendish said, blushing but smiling.  Damn.  He was so cute when he did that.  Crap, Dakota really did have it bad.  But how could he help himself?

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s brilliant!”

“Oh, it’s just a little ditty.  I caught inspiration for it that day at the park,” he said.  “I wrote the tune almost immediately, but I must confess I’m a little less adept at penning lyrics.”

“Just play it already!” Dakota begged.

“Very well.”

_Don't look at me for an itinerary_  
I've got no agenda, no plans  
Let's just keep it all arbitrary  
I'm putting it all in your hands

 _Hey, we could do whatever you want_  
A park or a museum or that restaurant  
You know the one that has the spinach and the cheese croissant  
Or we could just chill and be all nonchalant

 _Check my schedule, I've got nothing pressing_  
Nothing on my to-do list that needs addressing  
Seems the way that the day's progressing  
That we've got nothing to do but messing around

 _Messing around_  
Messing around  
Just messing around  
Just messing around

The moment he had finished, Cavendish looked nervously up at Dakota.

“Encore!” Dakota insisted, and Cavendish obliged.

It was more upbeat than “Für Elise”, certainly, but Dakota still found himself just as immersed now as he had felt the first time he heard Cavendish play.  It was as if the piano itself were an illusion, and the music poured directly out of Cavendish’s hands.  Those soft, delicate little hands…

Dakota wasn’t even trying to deny it to himself anymore.  Even though Amanda’s warning should have placed new restrictions on the guardian angel’s behavior, now that Dakota understood what he felt, it was kind of liberating.  Sure, it was unfortunate that he couldn’t tell Cavendish, but just because he couldn’t say it didn’t mean he couldn’t show it, right?

“Bravo!  You know, we should try that sometime,” he said eagerly.

“I’m sorry… try what now?”

“You know… well, we did the park, but we should do a museum or a restaurant too!”

“We tried to do a restaurant once, if you’ll recall,” Cavendish reminded him.

“Oh yeah.”  The colors of the world seemed to desaturate momentarily.  “Sorry I stood you up there.”

“Water under the bridge.”  Cavendish shrugged.  “I would have enjoyed it very much, though.  But I understand that there are risks you mustn’t take.”  He looked away.  “We’ve… we’ve strayed too far already, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” Dakota admitted.

Cavendish got up from the piano bench and joined Dakota on the couch.  He put one arm up on the backrest, so that if it slipped a few inches, it would have been around Dakota’s neck.  The thought of this raised the hairs on Dakota’s arm.

“I do enjoy ‘messing around’ with you,” Cavendish said quickly.  “Right or wrong, I enjoy it.  I know I was selfish on Christmas, when I begged you to stay, but I can’t really say that I’m sorry.  I’m too happy to be sorry.”

“I’m not sorry either,” said Dakota.

“In that case… can I request that you, erm, watch over me again tonight?” Cavendish asked timidly.

“You mean sleep with you?”

“In the literal sense, yes!”  Cavendish’s complexion was pinker than ever.

Did he love Dakota back?

Dakota didn’t dare ask.  If the answer was no, he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

But if the answer was yes, he wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Yeah, of course,” Dakota said.

 

 

It was four a.m. when the phone rang.

Dakota yawned as he opened his eyes.  Cavendish groggily fumbled to answer and croaked out a poorly enunciated greeting.

Then he jolted up, ramrod straight, but his shoulder trembled.

“She is…?  Yes.  Yes.  I… I see, well I can in about twenty minutes, I… oh Jove… yes, yes I’ll be there.”  He got up and shoved the phone into his coat pocket, scrambling for his car keys.

“Cav?  What’s going on?”  Dakota was awake now too.

Cavendish turned, and there were tears in his eyes.

“My mother,” he said.  “She’s… she was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery.  It appears that a neural implant she’s had for years suddenly malfunctioned.”  He wiped his face.  “If they can’t fix it in time… she won’t make it.”  He rushed out of the room, out of the apartment, not even closing and locking the door behind him.  Fortunately, Dakota remembered as he ran after Cavendish and climbed into his (thankfully) self-driving vehicle.

Dakota wished he knew what to say.  It didn’t feel like the right moment to remind Cavendish how many of his woes were caused by his mother, but he didn’t want to get the man’s hopes up by suggesting that there was a guardian angel on the case who would fix it.  After all… there might not be.  It might really be her time.

Damn, he hoped Cavendish wouldn’t ask.

It was a silent, awkward ride to the hospital.  Nobody said much, but Cavendish sobbed periodically.  Dakota could only hold him and scrounge around for tissues.

“I’m… I’m really sorry,” Dakota said as he dabbed away the tears that flowed from Cavendish’s nose and stained his mustache.

Cavendish nodded.  “Will you come into the emergency room with me?”

“I can’t,” Dakota choked out.  Cavendish jerked back, injured, so Dakota added, “At least not in my physical form.  Cav, it’s a hospital.  It’s going to be crawling with dozens if not hundreds of other guardians, to say nothing of the ’pomps.”  Psychopomps.  They were the angels who stepped in when a guardian’s assignment was finally over.  “I… I will _be_ there!  If anyone sees my spiritual form, they’ll just assume I’m keeping vigil.  But if I’m corporeal… They’ll ask questions.  And I… I can’t let them know I’m emotionally involved.  _Please_ understand!” he begged.

Cavendish closed his eyes and nodded just as the car turned into the hospital parking lot and found a space.  He grabbed Dakota into a big bear hug that didn’t seem possible with those thin little arms.  “Off you go, then,” he whispered, and Dakota took the cue to vanish before Cavendish stepped out of the car.

He followed his charge up the steps to the hospital.  Cavendish’s arms were crossed tightly across his chest as though he were still hugging Dakota.

It hurt to watch.

 

 

It hurt even more to sit in those plastic waiting room chairs for five hours.  Not because the chairs were uncomfortable, but because Dakota had to watch Cavendish stare at the door in anticipation, jump up whenever a doctor stepped in, and sit down dejectedly as the news was invariably for someone else.

In between, all the man could do was sit there, hands balled into fists, legs bouncing wildly.  All Dakota wanted was to appear so Cavendish knew for sure he wasn’t alone.  He had to know, right?  That Dakota would never bail on him at a moment like this?

Except, in a way, Dakota already had.

He told himself it wouldn’t have made a difference.  There were no words of comfort that would evaporate the sadness of a man who might lose his mother, no matter how terrible that mother might be.  What was the point of being there at all if Dakota couldn’t fix anything?  Hell, Dakota could fly back to heaven right now and go back to sleep and Cavendish wouldn’t even notice.

But Dakota didn’t leave.

This was torture.  Surely they would have to know something soon, right?  They could at least keep Cavendish posted on how the surgery was progressing, couldn’t they?  If only Cavendish were allowed in the operating room.

The light bulb came on.  _Cavendish_ wasn’t allowed in the OR, sure.  But the hospital had no ability whatsoever to block access for _Dakota_.  Perhaps if the angel knew something, he could find some way to convey the information to the human.

He flew down the hallway, looking for any kind of patient information on the doors of the rooms, but the hospital didn’t seem to have left much.  Then a doctor with a nametag reading _Underwood_ strode by, and Dakota seemed to recall the receptionist having mentioned her when Cavendish first came in.  Was she on the case?

Dakota followed her into an operating room and, sure enough, even with her scalp cut open he recognized Cavendish’s mother.  Dakota didn’t really know much about neural implants, but there were eight different doctors so they must be complicated—it was, after all, still brain surgery.  Only, why was that one doctor not scurrying around frantically like the others?  And why was he wearing a black jacket instead of scrubs?  And why did he have a halo and a… sickle?

Oh, right.  There were _seven_ doctors and one angel.  And the angel was no guardian.

“Are you lost?” the ’pomp asked him.  His skin was eerie white, his chin sharp, yet his expression was genial, perhaps even kind.

“No, just… just looking for information,” Dakota replied.

“I’m Draco,” the psychopomp introduced himself.  “What did you want to know?”  Off-putting as he was, Dakota could feel that this angel sincerely wanted to help.

“I’m Dakota.  I’m a guardian.”

Draco frowned.  “You were not _her_ guardian, though, were you?  Because you should have been informed—”

“I’m her son’s guardian.  He’s here.  So if you’re here, then she’s not going to live, is she?”  Dakota swallowed.

“She will die,” Draco affirmed.  “Only not just yet.  The physicians will pronounce her dead just three minutes after midnight on March 5th, and it is only the morning of the 4th.”

“The Bureau of Prophecy told you that, huh?”

“It knows these things.”

“So if it’s not time to take her yet, why are you here?” Dakota asked.

Draco shrugged.  “For some reason, even though they can’t see us, souls are more cooperative when you’ve stood by their side.  They feel like they know you, and trust you enough to follow you.  I suspect we don’t give the living mortals enough credit.  They might not understand how, but I think they know we’re here.”

Dakota thought back to what Cavendish said about sensing his presence that day at the conservatory.  Had he been wrong to dismiss the man’s claim?  Could Cavendish even tell that Dakota had been sitting by him for hours and hours?

Could Cavendish tell Dakota wasn’t sitting by him now?

He was about to run back to the waiting room, just in case, but as he was turning to go, another figure emerged in his peripheral vision.

It wasn’t the shadow, that much he knew, because it was taller and calmer, but it almost seemed like the same sort of thing.  As Dakota focused his attention on it, he was gripped by a sense of dread, maybe even despair, something like death, real death, if angels could die.

It also looked a little like Draco.

“The hell is that thing?” Dakota asked, pointing.  If it was stalking Draco, then the ’pomp deserved to know about it.

“Who, him?  He’s nothing to be concerned about; I see him every case.  He is only here to collect what I leave behind.”

Dakota shuddered.  No, he definitely couldn’t do Draco’s job.

He hurried back to the waiting room, where Cavendish was balled up in the same chair he’d occupied this whole time.

Hildegarde was drying his tears.

 

 

She was dressed primly, and she sat in Dakota’s seat, a basket of lemon tarts behind her.

“Shh, I know, I know.”  There were tears in her own eyes.  “I came as soon as I got the news.  Your mother was always a lovely person.  I can’t imagine saying goodbye to her.  But we don’t even know that we have to, yet.  You heard what that last update said—they won’t have any definitive answers until this evening.”  Why was she being so nice?

Oh, right.  Dakota mentally cursed Buford and his damn potion.

“Why?  Why do they have to take so bloody long just to decide if she’s dying?” Cavendish confided.  “I feel like we’re being strung along by some cruel joke from fate.  What if that’s our whole lives?  Being dragged along, not knowing when we live or die until we die for real and then after that… nothing!”

“I don’t know,” Hildegarde told him.  “I like to think it’s not nothing, but nobody really knows for sure.  I guess all we can really do is make the most of the time we have.”  She looked at the clock.  “Speaking of… why don’t you get some sleep?”

“How can I sleep like this?”

“Whatever the outcome, you heard them, you won’t be able to see her either way until after they finish the surgery, and that’s at least seven hours from now.  If you fall asleep… they’ll go by faster,” she pointed out.  She squeezed him tightly to her chest.  “ _Please_ get some sleep, Balthazar!  And eat something, maybe have a little tea?  You can leave and come back long before the surgery’s over.”

“She’s right!” Dakota interjected.  He had ducked into an adjacent supply closet to assume his corporeal form, screw the potential consequences.  Hildegarde’s jaw dropped, and the receptionist’s brow furrowed, as though she were trying to remember when anyone had entered the closet in the first place.  “I’ll go home with you so you won’t have to be alone.  But you gotta get out of this place or you’ll go nuts!”

Cavendish looked from Hildegarde to Dakota, then back to Hildegarde.  “Thank you for the words of comfort, Hildegarde,” he said diplomatically.  “I will heed your advice.”  He accepted the arm Dakota offered and left the building in the angel’s embrace, leaving Hildegarde and her lemon tarts behind.

It sickened Dakota with disgust for himself to even be thinking about such things at a time like this, but it was a relief to watch Hildegarde disappear from sight and mind.

 

 

“You know I won’t truly be able to sleep, yes?” Cavendish asked the moment they were back at his apartment.

“We’ll see.  Maybe you’ll feel different with some food in you.  Let me make you something—eggs, pancakes, French toast?”

“Scrambled eggs would be lovely.”  Cavendish sank into the couch and buried his face in his hands.  “Vinnie, I must admit I have many questions for you.”

“Ask me literally anything you want,” Dakota assured him as he pulled the egg carton out of the refrigerator.

“What do you think is going to happen?  Or do you know for sure?”

“I know for sure.”  Dakota cracked two eggs over a bowl.

“Well?”

“She’s dying,” he confessed, adding milk and cheese to the mixture.  “I met her psychopomp, uh, you might call it a ‘reaper’ or something.  It’s her time.”  He pulled a fork out of a drawer.

“Thank you,” Cavendish replied.  His gratitude puzzled Dakota, until he added, “At least someone can give me an answer.”  But the tears gushed profusely down his cheeks.

Dakota passed him a napkin—the closest thing to a tissue in reach.  “Sorry it’s not the answer you want.”

“I want the truth,” Cavendish declared.  “Whatever that might be.  Which leads me to my next question—what _really_ happens when we die?”

“You go to heaven.”

“I figured as much, but… does everybody go to heaven?  Will Mother?”

“Your mom _will_ go to heaven,” Dakota promised.

“In spite of the… things… that she’s done?”

“Do you _want_ her to go to hell?”

“Of course not!  Never!” Cavendish insisted.  “But today is a day to face reality, and if hell is a reality, it is one I need to accept, too.  So is it?”

Dakota swallowed as he turned up the heat on the stove and poured the eggs into a frying pan.  “Hell is real, too.”

“So who goes to hell?  Is it the very worst people, people like… like Hitler or Stalin?”

“They’re in hell.”

“Anybody else?”

“Everybody else,” Dakota answered all too quickly.  In response to the abject horror and confusion on Cavendish’s face, he realized he would have to elaborate immediately.  “Everybody goes to heaven and everybody goes to hell.”

“How can that be?”

“Because you aren’t exactly one person!”  Dakota scratched the back of his neck.  “You have an essence, and you have a soul.  Your essence is things like your personality, your likes and dislikes, memories, the things that make you _you_ and not someone else.  But your soul is everything good about you and everything bad about you.  Those things can coexist on a mortal plane, but not in the afterlife.  So when you die, your soul splits.”

“That’s so barbaric!” Cavendish choked.

“It’s not like we do it on purpose!” Dakota defended.  “Nobody goes in with a knife and cuts your soul in half, or whatever.  It’s just that the good and bad detach from each other the moment you die, and your essence doubles so that each piece can carry it into the afterlife.  Of course, it’s almost never a truly even split.  Most people have more good than bad, or vice versa.”

“So the piece that goes to heaven might be smaller than the piece that goes to hell?”

“In many cases, yes.  I think the closest analogy you humans have come up with is the idea that there are two wolves fighting inside you, one bad and one good, and the winner is the wolf that you feed.  Only thing is, the loser wolf doesn’t die.  There is always _something_ that goes to heaven and something that goes to hell.”

Cavendish blew his nose.  “So in heaven… you can tell who was good or evil by their size?”

“Not exactly.  That’s where the Bureau of Nurture comes into play.  They’re not just there to raise the fledglings.  When a very weak soul arrives, they nurse it, teach it, coax it until it becomes recognizable as a person again.  Some of the worst people take a very long time.  Ted Bundy’s virtuous soul was so tiny they _lost_ it for a while.  But eventually, sometimes after hundreds of years, they always manage to restore it to someone who belongs in heaven.  There’s always something good to go on.”

“Does that mean there’s always something bad to go on as well, though?” Cavendish asked.  Bereaved though he was, he seemed genuinely curious.  “That some evil part existed in the likes of Fred Rogers, or Malala Yousafzai?”

“Yeah, I guess.  I don’t really know what exactly happens in hell,” Dakota confessed.  “But my suspicion is that hell isn’t really a nurturing kind of place.  Whatever lands there from people like that isn’t enough to be consciously aware of what’s happening, or feel much pain, and it probably burns off before the demons even figure out what to do with it.”

“Whereas the wicked have a strong enough presence to truly suffer?”

“Something like that.”

“So Mother _will_ be punished for her deeds!” Cavendish cried.  “For all the unfair labor policies, and all the environmental destruction, and all the obstruction of medical research, and—”

“Maybe!  I didn’t really know your mother.  But Cavendish… I told you there was good and evil in _everyone_.”  He shoveled the eggs onto a plate and handed it to the human.  “Cav… you will see your mother again, in _heaven_.  I know she wasn’t a great person to you, but… do you have any good memories of her?  Any at all?”

Cav paused, his fork hovering over his eggs.  Finally, he said, “When I was a schoolboy, I liked a boy in my class.  I was only starting to study piano, but I was determined to compose a song specially for him.  Well, I wasn’t very experienced yet, so even though I spent weeks getting it to what I thought was just right, the final product was mediocre at best.  And I could tell by his face when I shared it with him that he was not impressed.  Needless to say, I quickly became the laughingstock of the schoolchildren who heard it.  For days afterward I could scarcely even bring myself to practice, until Mother asked me why, and when I told her, she asked to hear it.  I expected her to ridicule me as well, but instead, she took my sheet music, pointed out my weaknesses as well as my strengths, and suggested some improvements.  We wound up writing a completely different song, but we wrote it together.  And after that, my confidence was restored.”  He took a bite of his breakfast.  “For all of her faults, she always believed in me.  I think that’s how I was finally able to succeed.”

Dakota placed a hand on Cavendish’s shoulder.  “She believed in you,” he repeated.  “That part of her is the part that went to heaven.  That’s the part that you miss, the reason you’re even sad right now, isn’t it?”

Cavendish nodded.

“Then that’s the part you’ll have forever.”

Cavendish dropped his fork and threw his arms around Dakota, who embraced him back.

“Thank you,” whispered the human.

“Don’t thank me, I’m just the messenger.”  But Dakota’s dismissal of his efforts only made Cavendish squeeze him even more tightly.

 

 

That night, Cavendish got the official news of his mother’s passing.  Even though he knew it was coming, he still broke down in the hospital lobby.  Despite the immense risk, Dakota wished he had accompanied the man in corporeal form, so he could offer comfort.  But Cavendish wasn’t alone; there was another shoulder there for him to cry on—Hildegarde’s.

That weekend was the funeral, and Dakota couldn’t materialize for that either.  There were very few people in attendance, and a new face like Dakota’s would surely not go unnoticed.  If pressed for information about himself, he’d be forced to reveal his angelic nature, but it didn’t seem fair to expect Cavendish to fabricate an identity for him given everything else on the man’s mind.  Fortunately, someone else sat by Cavendish’s side throughout the service, burial, and reception—Hildegarde.

The next couple of months were an utter nightmare.  Movies always made inheriting wealth from a relative look like winning the lottery, but they didn’t show all the red tape of paying new taxes, renewing old contracts, catching up on volumes of bookkeeping, and a million other dull affairs.  Dakota did his best to try to help, but most of the documents seemed to be written in a cryptic language, and he felt like he was mostly just in the way.  As it happened, though, a very competent secretary volunteered her services in organizing the woman’s estate—Hildegarde.

It pained Dakota, but the fact of the matter was, Hildegarde was there for Cavendish when Dakota simply couldn’t be.  Whatever was in the potion Buford had given her, it worked.  Hildegarde wasn’t a gold digger.  The things she did for Cavendish, she did out of a sincere sense of love.

That made the whole thing a thousand times worse.

 

 

The vision was awful, but Dakota couldn’t interpret it.

It wasn’t that he saw Cavendish die.  In fact, he didn’t _see_ anything, nor did he hear anything.  But in his heart, he felt it—an oppressive burning like a vat of acid being poured over his skin.  He raced to earth, to Cavendish’s apartment, and there, just outside the door, the feeling grew worse, cloudy and confusing and painful.

Thus, it made no sense when he knocked, and Cavendish answered with a great smile.

“Dakota!” he said more cheerfully than he’d been in a long time.  “Dakota, I’ve made a decision, it was a hard one to reach, but as soon as I reached it, I instantly knew it was the right thing to do, and I am so happy!”  He literally picked up Dakota under the armpits and lifted him off the ground.

“A decision?  About what?”

“About the pistachio empire… well, I am no longer its emperor.  You could say I’m abdicating!”

“Wait, what?  Why?”

Cavendish grew more solemn then.  He closed the door and motioned for Dakota to sit down.  “I’ve been thinking about everything you’ve told me.  About heaven, and hell, and how the good part of a person prospers when you feed it.  I thought about my mother’s corruptions, and how I have literally inherited the chance to undo many of them.  I’ve returned many of the pistachio farms to their rightful owners, or their owners’ families, and the ones acquired fairly I plan to sell and donate the proceeds to charity.  I’ll keep just enough to stay comfortable with a part-time job, and I’ll use my spare time to pursue music again.  Oh, and I’m surrendering her patents for medical research.”  He smiled cautiously.  “So what… so what do you think?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dakota replied.  “It sure sounds noble, I just… I want to know you’re doing it for the right reasons.  If you’re only doing it to go to heaven, your motivations won’t be pure, and it won’t do you much good.”

“It’s not just that,” Cavendish clarified.  He swallowed.  “Look, this is just a theory I’m going on, but I have to try.  I don’t know if the consequences of a person’s actions affect them post facto—”

“Whoa, big words!”

“It’s two medium-sized words!  Anyway, I thought about how the part of my mother that ran the pistachio monopoly was the evil part, and the part that believed in my musical abilities… that was the good part.”  He folded his hands in his lap.  “I can minimize the damage done by the monopoly, and I can maximize the accomplishment of her musical coaching.  I can bring out the best of her memories, if nothing else, by bringing out the best of myself.  All I have to do is sign these papers to make everything final.”  He held up a thick manila folder.  “I just… I wanted to see what you thought of the idea.  If you think it’s a good one.”

Just like that, Cavendish would no longer spend long nights drafting contracts and crunching numbers.  He could practice piano every night, with Dakota by his side, freed from oppressive obligations.  The thought made Dakota smile with hope.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Dakota assured him.

“My angel, I believe you really do make me a better person.”  Cavendish planted a kiss on Dakota’s forehead.

A kiss.  A forehead kiss, but a kiss nevertheless.  And Cavendish had given it freely, casually, naturally.  It felt like a thousand flowers were about to blossom right over that spot.  Whatever the feeling was, it was the precise opposite of the one that had warranted the investigation.

“Pass me that pen?” Cavendish asked.

“Hmm?  Oh, yeah, definitely!”  Dakota obliged, and Cavendish signed the first document on the stack.

That was when the explosion happened.

 

 

“The hell was that?!?!?!” Dakota asked, his ears still ringing.

Cavendish only stared at him, utterly perplexed.  “The hell was… what?”

“That noise!”  Just out the window, red smoke billowed against the night sky.  “Out there, look!”  He dragged Cavendish to the window and opened the curtains all the way.

There, on the lawn.  _It_ turned to face Dakota, and bright orange eyes glowered back at him.  The thing released a high-pitched shriek, as deafening as the gunshot sound that had caught Dakota’s attention in the first place.

Except Cavendish didn’t seem to hear the shriek, either.  “I’m… I’m sorry, what am I supposed to be looking at?”

“You can’t see it,” said Dakota incredulously.

Concern washed over Cavendish’s face.  “Can angels hallucinate?”

“No, we cannot!  But… we can see some things you can’t.”  Dakota closed his eyes for two seconds.

When he opened them, the shadow was gone.

“What sorts of things?” asked Cavendish.

“Never mind,” Dakota sighed.  “It’s gone now.”  He closed the curtains.  “Keep signing those papers.  I’ll make tea.”

 

 

Cavendish kept enough of his wealth to get by, but three mornings a week he would pick up garbage for extra spending money.

Physically and mentally, it was probably good for him to get out of the house, the times Dakota had to rescue him from the trash compactor or a cyborg bear in the dumpster notwithstanding.  It was a little odd seeing such a distinguished gentleman in a white jumpsuit picking up bottles in the park, but he was just as beautiful as ever.  The best assignments were in the park where they had their ditch date… erm, ditch _day_.  Sometimes Dakota accompanied Cavendish incognito, other times he just hovered in his spiritual form, but always, he kept his vigil.

Not everyone was so impressed with Cavendish’s career change.

His father tried to spin it in a positive direction—that the governor’s son worked to give back to the community—but he was clearly embarrassed.  He would periodically suggest going back to school, to this or that graduate degree program, had he considered law school, etc.  He was also less adamant than he used to be that Cavendish show up at every political shindig.  Frankly, probably everyone was happier that way.

And still, there was Hildegarde.

She seemed on the verge of tears the first time she ran into Cavendish in his work uniform, as though she were seeing him without his legs or something.  She asked if he was eating well, if he still had a place to live, if he was happy.  Cavendish’s assurances that he did not work out of necessity did little to quell her concerns.

Now, she was at his door with a fresh proposal.  Dakota barely had time to disappear before Cavendish invited her in.

“It could work perfectly for you!” Hildegarde declared.  “We’re just two blocks away from the State Conservatory of Music, and I’m sure they’d hire you on the spot if you applied.  From there you could audition for the National Orchestra, or—”

“Hildegarde,” Cavendish stated firmly.  “I cannot accept this offer.”

“What, because you would be living with me?  You’d have your own space, it’s not like we’d be sharing a bed!”

“That arrangement is part of it, yes.  But it’s not why.  I’d be getting your hopes up, and we both know that a relationship between us simply cannot happen.”

“ _Why_ , though?” Hildegarde demanded.  “My parents like you.  Your father likes me.  Yes, there was that little mistake over Christmas, but we can move past that!”

“No, I really can’t.  Because ‘mistakes’ like that are just going to happen again, and you know it.  I’m not attracted to women.  You’re a lovely woman, but I simply cannot force feelings that are not there.”

The rest of the meeting was awkward and painful to watch.  By the time Hildegarde left, literally in tears, Cavendish was visibly worn out, and collapsed the second he closed the door.

“She’s… persistent,” Dakota said after he reappeared.

“Yes, and I wish I could give in.”

“But… you don’t like her.”

“Not in the way she wants me to, but… I have come to see her as a close friend, Dakota.  She was a tremendous help after Mother passed, and, well, she really gave up a lot of herself to give me the support I needed.”  He slumped farther onto the floor.  “If I married her, I’d never be lonely.  I’d have a chance at a family again, a better one than my parents gave me.  I’ve seen her kind side.  She’d make a wonderful mother.”

“There are others—”

“I know that!  But I think for my love to be true, I need to be friends first.  And friends are hard for a man like me to make.”  He sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“Hildegarde isn’t your only friend.”

Cavendish eyed Dakota wearily.  “She’s my only _real_ friend… who is also a human.”

Dakota wanted to tell him, right then, right there.  If Cavendish hadn’t specified ‘who is also a human’, Dakota very well might have set the record straight.  But the fact of the matter was, Cavendish was right.  A human had to be with another human.  It was only right.

“So do you want her, or not?” Dakota asked, his voice cracking.

“I want to _want_ her,” Cavendish explained.  “Like if there were a pill I could take that would just make me attracted to her, life would be grand.”

Dakota froze.  “Or like, say, a potion?”

Cavendish, of course, was entirely unaware that Dakota’s suggestion was not hypothetical.  “Yes, a pill, a potion, a magic spell, I don’t care!  I just wish I could be with her and still be truly happy.”

It burned away at Dakota’s core, but there was no way he could do right by Cavendish otherwise.  Amanda and the Bureau and everyone in heaven was right—Dakota needed to stop letting his feelings interfere with Cavendish’s destiny.

“Hey Cav… I’m gonna run back to heaven real quick.  There’s this wine I think you’ll like to try."


	5. Don't Stand So Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly just pining. Pining sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, this isn't a dead fic, promise. I've taken my sweet time with this one, but I WILL see this through to the end. I'm halfway there. Cue Bon Jovi.

“Look, we’re glad you could join us for volleyball today, but it would help if you actually, y’know, _played some volleyball_ ,” Melissa said crossly after Dakota let another one sail right past his head.  She, Zack, Milo, Dakota, and Amanda were on one team, while Sara, Neal, and Veronica were on the other, along with Lydia (a human who worked for the Cronus Donut) and Mort (an angel who was studying to work for the Bureau of Prophecy).

“Hey, it could’ve happened to anyone!” Milo pointed out good-naturedly as he fetched the ball from the flowerbed it had landed in.

“Yeah, ‘anyone’ who _didn’t_ have wings and the ability to hover!” Zack argued.  Dakota couldn’t really blame him and Melissa; they were down by… he didn’t actually know how many points, but it was a lot.  His head just wasn’t in the game.

“He… he does have a point there,” Milo admitted as he got ready for the next serve.  “You haven’t flown at all this game.  Are you all right?”  His eyes widened in concern.

Dakota smiled wryly.  “Well, I’m not dying!  But maybe… maybe I should sit this one out…”  He sauntered off the court.  He could feel everyone’s stares, but he knew without looking that Amanda’s was the heaviest.

“Well, but now the teams are uneven!” Melissa groaned.

“Mort, you’re on Milo’s team now,” Amanda told the angel across the net.  “I’ll sit this one out too.”  She cautiously fluttered to the bench where Dakota was lying, staring up at the sky.

“You did it, didn’t you?” she said in a low, gentle voice as she wedged herself onto the sliver of bench just above Dakota’s head.

“Kind of,” Dakota answered as the game resumed.  “I’m still Cavendish’s guardian, if that’s what you mean.”  At Amanda’s gasp, he rushed to clarify, “I just… set him up with someone else.  Another human,” he added quickly.

Amanda frowned.  “But are you sure it was the right human?”

“Yep.  I talked to his putto.”  Dakota crossed his arms over his chest.  “No going back now.  They’re in love, they’re happy, all is right with the world.”

Amanda placed a hand on Dakota’s shoulder.  “I know it isn’t fun right now,” she told him, “but you did the right thing.  Maybe you should get reassigned anyway.  It might make it easier,” she suggested.

“Doubt it,” Dakota contradicted her.  “Besides, he still likes me as a friend.  I can’t ditch him.”

Amanda nodded.

“So what happens now?” Dakota asked abruptly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Cavendish is with his One True Love now, right?  Is that like a… forever kind of deal?”

“You mean, will they still be in love after he dies?”

Dakota nodded.

Amanda sighed.  “I cannot say for certain.  In Milo’s case, he never had a putto _make_ him fall in love.  Most people don’t, they gravitate towards their designated soul mates naturally.  He did get married, and we called it off for a while, but after she died in a motorcycle crash I… we…”  Amanda blushed and redirected the topic.  “I was worried that after Milo got to heaven, he’d want her again and forget about me, or that his former wife would get jealous, but neither happened.  She found someone else in Pearly Heights, and we picked up right where we left off.  Now all of us are happy.”

“As long as nobody sees you and Milo in public.”

“Bingo.  But discretion is a small price to pay for love.  I do not envy you, Dakota.  My understanding is that love potions and enchanted arrows only work until the person dies, but I have never worked for the Bureau of Love.  And even if it is true, nobody knows how he will feel about you decades from now.”  She swallowed.  “But for your sake… I hope it works out.  _After_ he dies for real.  And you still have to do your job,” she said sternly.

“Thanks, Amanda,” said Dakota as he sat up again.  “It doesn’t fix anything, but it helps that I can talk to _someone_ about Cavendish.”

If only he could’ve talked to _Cavendish_ about Cavendish.

 

 

“A million apologies for my tardiness,” Cavendish panted as he reached Slushy Dawg.  “Hildegarde and I were… we were shopping.”

“So where are the new duds?”

“Hilda took them home for me.  We want to keep them crisp and clean.”  His face brightened.  “I have an audition with the National Orchestra at the end of next month!”

“That’s… that’s great news!” said Dakota as they went up to the window to order their usual.

“That’s not even the best part!  Vinnie, playing in the Orchestra is an honor, certainly, but what’s more is it will boost my career as an independent artist.”  Cavendish paid for five Slushy Dawgs, two milkshakes, and a large bucket of fries.  “Hildegarde has connections to Zackwood Studios.  If I make it into the Orchestra, Zackwood will produce my debut album!  I’m talking about real recognition here!”  He sat down and poured ketchup onto one of the hotdogs, motioning for Dakota to join him.  “They’ll hear my songs, Vinnie.  ‘The Shell Rebuilt’ will play on radio stations across the world!”

Dakota leaned over the table slightly to reach the fries.  “Sounds like a pretty big deal.”

“Indeed!  And to think I nearly missed out on it all.”  Cavendish took a bite out of his hotdog.

“So it sounds like you and Hildegarde have worked things out.”  Dakota peeled open a cup of honey mustard and dunked a French fry into it.

“Precisely!  And the irony of it all is, it happened a mere day after I initially turned her down.  I thought about the life she’d offered, a life with her, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with just _how much_ I wanted it.  Not just the career opportunities she promised, but the possibility of her… and me… we’re moving in together next week.”

Dakota nearly spat strawberry milkshake out of his nose.  “Already?”

“No time like the present, right?  Oh Vinnie, she’s a wonderful woman, so kind and beautiful, and I almost passed that up!”

Dakota knew his question was inadvisable, but he couldn’t help asking it anyway.  “And it doesn’t bother you that she’s a woman?”

“Strangely, no.  I suppose if it was meant to be, it will happen no matter what you feel!  But for what it’s worth, I feel very, very happy.”

It took all of Dakota’s energy to make the statement true enough to leave his lips, but finally he croaked out, “In that case… in that case I’m… I’m… happy for you!”

 

 

And so it happened.  Cavendish did move in with Hildegarde, and got run over by the moving van not once but twice, and each time Dakota rewound the time stream, he resented prolonging the time at Hildegarde’s house that much longer.  Would it kill Cavendish to… not be killed?

Arranging meetings with Cavendish became tricky after that.  Popping randomly into the human’s apartment had been one thing, but now that Cavendish lived with Hildegarde, Dakota risked encountering her own guardian angel at any time.  Of course, she wasn’t volatile by any measure, but did her proximity to Cavendish place her at heightened risk?  Materializing in Hildegarde’s house was a dangerous idea.  Dakota caught Cavendish at the park and a few other places here and there, but those places were public, and presented the same problem as appearing in the house.

Then Cavendish started offering music lessons at the State Conservatory, and the solution hit Dakota like a meteor.

“Yo, I’m here for piano lessons!” he declared at the administration desk.  “I was thinking I’d like to start today.”

“Sir, it’s nine p.m., and most of the instructors prefer two weeks’ notice when scheduling,” the beleaguered intern replied.  “Our last piano instructor is about to leave for the day, and… there he is!” he said as Cavendish rounded a corner, a folder full of sheet music tucked under his arm.

“Maestro Cavendish!  I was hoping I’d see you.”

Cavendish either caught on very quickly, or had the same hope as Dakota.  “Erm, yes, it’s my understanding that you require remedial instruction?”

“Wait, I thought you were just starting today!”  The intern looked between the man and the angel, utterly confused.

“He’s taught me before.  Or tried to, at least.  I was terrible at it!”

Cavendish smiled wryly.  “You were, now, weren’t you?  I realize the Conservatory is about to close for the night, but if you would be so kind…”

The intern shrugged.  “Just… just lock the building before you leave, all right?”

“Righty-ho!” said Cavendish.  He ushered Dakota into his classroom.

The second they were over the threshold, Dakota made a beeline for the piano and started fumbling at the keys.  Damn, he couldn’t even lie retroactively.

“You’re really that eager to get started?”  Cavendish scratched his head inquisitively.

“I said I was here for piano lessons,” Dakota explained.

“Very well, then.  You remember the scales I showed you?”

“Um…”

“It’s quite all right.”  Cavendish picked up Dakota’s hands and guided them to the correct position.  “Perhaps it would help you to get the feeling in your fingers.  Do, re, mi…” he began, guiding Dakota to each key in turn.  “I usually reserve this method for small children, but—”

“But I’m that bad.”  Dakota snorted.

“Just inexperienced!  Though I must ask… is a music lesson really the _only_ reason you’re here?”

“Of course it isn’t.”  Dakota shrugged.  “I just… I missed you, man!”

“We really haven’t seen each other much lately, have we?” Cavendish lamented.  “I’ve just been so busy…”

“Yeah, with Hildegarde!”  Dakota groaned at his own cattiness.

“Yes, with Hildegarde,” Cavendish conceded.  “But please, you mustn’t assume I no longer care for you!  As a matter of fact… I have a new piece I’d like your opinion on.”

Dakota scooted out of the way while Cavendish demonstrated.

This tune started off simply, but pleasantly, and then grew louder, faster, livelier.  Then it started over, but in a minor key, and while it was still beautiful, there was something wistful, almost mournful in the song, like raindrops on Dakota’s ears.  Then the raindrops turned to something heavier, like a monsoon, a thing of sheer power, something terrible and terrific, awful and awesome.  But when it bridged back to where it started, it was as though the clouds had parted, and there was sunshine and… warmth?

How did Dakota “hear” those things in the music?

Cavendish stared at him anxiously, waiting for his opinion.

“I think that one goes on the debut album,” the angel declared.  “What does Hildegarde think?”

Cavendish looked down sheepishly.  “She hasn’t heard it, actually.  She’s a lovely woman, but I don’t know that she fully appreciates my music.”

“She doesn’t,” said Dakota casually.

Cavendish put an arm around Dakota’s shoulder.  “Which is why I need you, Dakota.”  His blue eyes locked into Dakota’s.  Just as the man’s music could summon a storm, his gaze was strong enough to send a laser right through Dakota’s heart.  Was his touch soft enough to heal the damage?

Dakota jerked back from the temptation.  “Right.  You need someone objective, a third party.  Someone you aren’t in love with to give accurate feedback.”  He stood up.  “That’s probably enough for tonight, don’t you think?”

Cavendish blinked.  “If… if you’re sure you’ve had your fill.”  He looked nearly as disappointed as Dakota felt.  They both knew he wouldn’t be back for another lesson.

“G’night, Cav,” Dakota said as he left.  “Hildegarde probably wants you home soon.”

 

 

It was two days before Cavendish’s audition when the couple invited Gregory Cavendish over for dinner.  Dakota only hovered and observed; while the food looked delicious (fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, and corn-on-the-cob), there was something inexplicably couple-y about inviting one’s parent to dinner with one’s girlfriend.  Better to feel like a creeper than to feel like a third wheel.

“It’s a pity Balthazar’s mother couldn’t be here,” Gregory Cavendish said as they sat down, as though he and the woman had been on speaking terms over the past few years.  “She thought you were a wonderful girl.”

Hildegarde smiled as she sipped her wine and interlaced the fingers of her free hand with Cavendish’s.

“Mother certainly would have been happy to know we got back together,” Cavendish said diplomatically.  “But now it’s up to you to bless this relationship.”

“Oh, you have my blessing, no problems there!” Gregory assured him.  “I was just a little curious about what the future might hold.”

“Well!” Hildegarde began excitedly.  “There’s the audition for the National Orchestra the day after tomorrow, did you tell him about that?”

“Not yet,” Cavendish confessed as he buttered a biscuit.  “But should I be accepted, our future looks very bright.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you’ll be accepted!” Hildegarde assured him.

“Eh… not to rain on your parade, but you do have to consider the possibility of any outcome,” Gregory pointed out.  “I’m sure that many capable pianists intend to audition—do you know how many others are competing?”

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Cavendish stammered.

“So what is the backup plan?”  Gregory sawed a piece of chicken off of the bone.  “What kind of stable career do you have lined up?”

Before Cavendish could answer, Hildegarde interjected, “Not that it matters, because he _will get in_ , but he’s a music teacher, just like before, except the State Conservatory comes with more prestige.  As governor, you should be thrilled.”

“Your service to our state is certainly commendable,” Gregory acknowledged, “but might I ask how well they compensate you?”

“As you can see, we’re doing quite well financially.”  Hildegarde gestured to the dining room’s high windows, chandelier, and fine silverware.  Cavendish just sat still, quiet.

“Definitely; I do not question your means to provide for yourselves.  You’re doing very well considering how young you still are.  But you aren’t getting any younger, and I just want to be sure that when the timing is right you will have your affairs in order.”

“You say that as though one of us were about to die!”

“He means when we have children,” Cavendish translated.

“Yes, actually.”  Gregory displayed no shame in his bluntness.  “What?  It’s the natural order, and it would be wise to plan for that eventuality now.”

Cavendish’s face grew hard.  “We have everything we need, Father.”

“We might have to sacrifice a few things,” Hildegarde admitted, “but they aren’t essential.  Travelling less, wearing fewer designer clothes, that sort of thing.”

Gregory stared at his son.  “Balthazar, is that the sort of life you want for your child?”  Before Hildegarde could reply, he continued, “Your mother and I worked very hard to ensure that all three of us had nothing short of the best.  You had seen much of the world at a very young age, you went to the finest schools, you had every toy you ever desired.  And you never had to take out a loan, for _anything_ , or had to work at a job you disliked.  It’s why you don’t have any siblings, so we could focus everything on you.  Don’t you owe your child at least as much as you had?”

“That ship has sailed, Father.  I gave up the pistachio corporation, where I know most of your money came from.  I have made my choice.”  Despite the confidence in his voice, Dakota noticed that Cavendish’s leg was trembling.

“So it’s _fortunate_ that you’re _going_ to be accepted into the Orchestra,” Hildegarde said firmly.  “And release your album, and the world will hear your music!  And if Mrs. Cavendish were still here, she’d back me up!”

“If Mrs. Cavendish were still here, you would still have your pistachio fortune!”

“ _Must_ we drag Mother into this?”

Hildegarde covered her mouth.  “Balthazar… I’m sorry.”

Cavendish held up a hand.  “Never mind.  The fact is, she _isn’t_ still here, and neither is her counsel nor her wealth.  When Hildegarde and I have our children, they will not have the standard of living I did.  But they will have parents who love each other, and stay together.”

Gregory shook his head.  “That’s easy for you to say now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when the bills start pouring in.”  He wiped his mouth with his napkin.  “You’d better hope that audition thing works out for you, since it’s apparently the only career you’ll consider.  Hope it doesn’t tank.”

Dakota was this close to materializing just so he could punch the man.

The family rushed through the rest of dinner, and Gregory left before they even broke out the dessert.  The moment he was gone, Cavendish flopped onto the loveseat in the living room.

“Balthazar… please… you mustn’t let him get to you.”  Hildegarde stroked his hair.

“I’m not.”

But Cavendish’s fists were still clenched.

 

 

The day of Cavendish’s audition rolled around, and while Dakota knew it was perverse, he felt excited upon hearing that Hildegarde had a meeting with a client and thus would be unable to make it.  They could hang out when it was over, just like old times, maybe grab steak subs or breakfast burritos to celebrate a victory.  Hell, if Cavendish was feeling especially jovial after winning, they could go go-karting or swing by Lard World and ride the crazy rollercoasters.  It would be fun, just a couple of guys being pals.

Except, most guys on Earth didn’t bring corsages for their “pals.”

But surely this was an exception.  You were supposed to give flowers to performers, right?  It was tradition.  Technically, they were supposed to be given _after_ a show, if memory served (there was some superstition that presenting them prior was bad luck), but Dakota thought Cavendish could use the encouragement boost beforehand.  Plus, Dakota recalled something about flowers being exempt from the curse if they were sent to the dressing room, which the concert hall had provided for all the candidates.

Cavendish’s would be the last door on the right.

Dakota materialized in the men’s room.  It might be pathetically vain, but he wanted to check himself in the mirror one last time before seeing Cavendish.  Nothing wrong with wanting to look one’s best for a formal affair, right?  He straightened his tie and smoothed his hair one last time before strolling to the other end of the hall.

He would have knocked, but by this point Cavendish was used to him appearing at random.

He could have knocked, but he wanted the flowers to be a surprise.

He _should_ have knocked.

“The devil?” gasped Cavendish.

“The _hell_?” demanded Hildegarde.

“S-s-sorry!”  Dakota slammed the door shut again.

He didn’t know what he was doing.  All he could do was drop to the floor, wrap his arms around his legs, and attempt to un-see what he had just seen all too clearly under the room’s garish lighting.  It wasn’t that it was anything scarring—the five-million-year-old angel had participated in far kinkier acts over the years.  But thinking about it, about _them_ , the way he had seen it… _hurt_.

Not that it should have, at all.  Dakota knew perfectly well the nature of their relationship, which he himself had facilitated.  It was natural, even sanctioned by the Bureau of Love.  So why… why…?

He knew why.

Knowing why didn’t make it one iota better.

He was almost on the verge of tears when the door opened again behind him, and he hastily recomposed himself before he could look any worse than he already did.

“I… I’m sorry you saw that, Dakota.”  Cavendish placed a hand on the angel’s shoulder and guided him back to his feet.

“Yeah, I thought it was a _dressing_ room, not an _undressing_ room!”  Dakota could banter, but he couldn’t look Cavendish in the eye.

“My audition is in twenty minutes.  I really should head for the greenroom.  You may accompany me, if you like.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have _Hildegarde_ accompany you?”  Still, Dakota followed as Cavendish led the way.

“She’s _shaken_ , thanks to you, and she really needs to get on the road again anyway.  She got a text from her client, delaying their appointment for another hour, not long enough for her to watch my performance, but long enough to swing by and, um, wish me luck…”  Cavendish’s face reddened.

“And I just shot that luck.”  Dakota folded his arms.

“Dakota, it isn’t like that!”

“Sure seems like it.  I’m sorry, all right?  I… I should have knocked, and…”  He couldn’t continue.

They reached the greenroom and sat down on a sofa that was a comfortable distance away from the other candidates.  Cavendish reached out for Dakota, but Dakota scooted away.

Cavendish sighed.  “Dakota, we really should talk!”

“There’s nothing to talk about!  It’s not like either of us wants you to give me the play-by-play.”

“That’s not what I meant.  I meant we need to talk about you being here.”

“Sorry, if you don’t want me, I’ll leave!”

“But that’s just it, Dakota!  I do want you!”

Dakota swallowed.  “You… you sure didn’t seem like it when I walked in.  And I don’t, I can’t, even blame you.  I just wanted to give you…”  But he must have dropped the corsage in all the confusion, because he no longer had it.

“You just wanted to offer me encouragement, which I cannot deny I _do_ appreciate.”

Dakota shook his head.  “But it kinda seems counterproductive when I rattled you instead.”

“I’m not rattled.”  The sweat that was starting to stain Cavendish’s collar told a different story, however.  “Or more accurately… I was rattled before you even got here, Dakota.”  Cavendish exhaled.  “I saw you, and I panicked, but I was already on edge.  I think I _wanted_ to panic but I didn’t have a good reason.”

“You’re nervous, that’s normal.”  
                “I’ve had a long time to make peace with my nerves over the audition, or so I thought.  I really was coping well.  And then Hildegarde surprised me, and I _was_ happy to see her, honest.  She was wearing a low-cut blouse, and her hair was down, and—”

“I get the picture!”

“But it was _her_ salutation that was counterproductive, not yours!  You see, right in the middle of… what you saw… it all crashed down on me.  My future, as a musician and as a husband and as a father.  And I was _terrified_.  Not of anything going wrong, but of everything going right.”  He squeezed his hands together in his lap.  “Loving Hildegarde is… easy.  I never thought I’d say that, but it is.  And I wondered if my career would be the exact same way—the moment it stops seeming impossible, it seems inevitable.  And for some reason, I didn’t want it to be inevitable.  I… I think it has to do with a conversation I recently had with my father.”

“I think I know the one,” Dakota confessed.  “He grilled you, right?  Shook up your confidence?”

“He did, for a bit.  And for a while I felt entirely determined to win this audition just to show him.  But then I wondered—is living my life to spite him any better than living my life to please him?  And if I do both—that is, spite him by becoming a successful musician, and please him by marrying Hildegarde—is that twice as bad?”

“Okay, now I’m totally confused.  Do you _want_ to win this thing, or not?”

“I do!  This isn’t about sabotaging my career!  I’ve worked my whole life to get here!”

Dakota sighed.  “And there’s your answer,” he said simply.  “At the end of the day, you’re not trying to please your parents, or Hildegarde, or destiny.  Inevitable or not, being a pianist was what you _wanted_.  Same with loving Hildegarde—it’s what you _wanted_.  You wanted this _life_ , Cav!  And I… I _have_ to let you have it.”  He stood up.

“Dakota?  Dakota, wait—”

But Dakota was already gone.

 

 

Not entirely gone, of course.

Although it seemed borderline masochistic, Dakota flew to the auditorium to hear Cavendish play.  He even sat down right on top of the judges’ desk, amused that they could see right through him.  He felt his heart skip when his charge emerged onto the stage.  He yearned for the music.  As always, he couldn’t resist the melody of Cavendish’s soul.

There was only one problem: Cavendish’s soul was not in this music.

He was playing all the right notes, and his timing was perfect, sure.  But his movements were mechanical, stiff, lifeless.  This was, by far, the saddest production Dakota had ever heard from Cavendish.

Dakota flew to the stage and stared at Cavendish’s face.  His glossy eyes fixated on the sheet music, and his lip quivered.  The man was definitely feeling something.  His soul wasn’t gone.  Just very, very well contained.

Dakota looked up at the judges, whose supposedly neutral expression was clearly one of sheer boredom.  The second Cavendish left the stage, they tossed his score sheets into the waste bin at the end of the desk.  Just like that, he was out of the running.

The angel slammed his fist against the table, not that anyone could be aware of the fact.

Was this _his_ fault?  He wished he had listened more carefully to what Cavendish had said in the greenroom.  Would the audition have been botched anyway if he and Hildegarde had made love and Dakota never showed up?  Was Cavendish secretly relieved to be done with the whole ordeal?

Dakota flew backstage, but Cavendish wasn’t there.  He checked the greenroom, the men’s room, and finally, the dressing room.  The dressing room he _should_ have checked before barging in.

Cavendish was in no way relieved to be done with the whole ordeal.

The man sat on the floor, a bottle of scotch in his hand—where and when did he get that?—and took a swig.  “Who goes for a quickie right before a big performance?  _Who does that_?  Where were my priorities?  Where were Hilda’s?”

Dakota sat down next to him, invisible.  Was Cavendish talking to the angel, or to himself?  He had to know Dakota didn’t actually flee the building, right?  Maybe that was why he was audibly questioning Hildegarde’s conduct and not Dakota’s.  Or maybe—just maybe—it really was his girlfriend and not his guardian who had messed with the man’s head.  It was a sick thing to hope for.  But did it even matter, now that it was all in the past?  If only he could go back—

But he _could_.

Did he dare?  Did Dakota dare alter the time stream for any reason other than to reverse a death?  It was such an egregious misuse of the ability that the Academy hadn’t even talked about it much, because really, what other reason was there to rewind time?  Any fellow angel would be horrified at the thought.

Yet, just as Dakota could not let Cavendish die, he could not bear to watch his life be ruined.

And just like that, it was two hours earlier.

 

 

The first thing he did was rush back to Hildegarde and Cavendish’s house.

Cavendish had left already, and from the sound of running water, Hildegarde must have been in the shower.  Her phone lay on the kitchen table, completely unattended.  Perfect timing; it buzzed the second Dakota picked it up.  Very fortunately, the phone wasn’t locked, and Dakota was readily able to look at the text she had just received.

“ _I regret to say this, but I will need to postpone our meeting by one hour—_ ”  And… delete.

It kinda sucked that Hildegarde was going to be stuck twiddling her thumbs waiting for the client to show up, but it was a small price to pay for salvaging Cavendish’s career.  If she knew all the details, she would probably even agree.  Nevertheless, it was still probably best not to give her all the details.

He sprinted from the house just as he heard her turn off the water.

 

 

It was illogical to tempt fate by again approaching Cavendish’s dressing room with flowers, but in for a penny, in for a pound—if Dakota was seriously daring enough to rewind time once (and that was a done deal), he might as well do it again if he screwed it up again.

Even so… this time, he would knock.

“Dakota!  How wonderful of you to come!  And is that… is that for me?” he asked as Dakota affirmatively passed him the corsage.  There— _this_ was the reaction Dakota had pictured in the other timeline, the cheerful, hopeful version of Cavendish with his mind on the audition.  “Oh, thank you, when Hildegarde said she wouldn’t be coming, I thought I would be here alone, but with you to cheer me on, I’ve got this in the bag!”

He kissed the top of Dakota’s head, sending a shiver of anticipation all the way down to Dakota’s toes.  Not that the anticipation meant anything; today was about Cavendish’s professional future, not his love life, and certainly not his love life with Dakota, because that didn’t exist, and—

“Well?  How does it look?”

Dakota whipped around to where Cavendish had just pinned the flowers to his vest.  Even though Dakota hadn’t intended it, the white blossoms and dark green ribbon really complemented Cavendish’s suit nicely.  Add in the stage makeup and the gleeful smile, and pure charm seemed to roll off of Cavendish in waves.

“Very handsome,” Dakota assured him.

 

 

This time, Dakota sat in a proper seat, physically manifest, four rows from the front.

He wasn’t sure if Cavendish could see him or not.  The lights onstage were exceptionally bright, and the house was so dark.  But at least the mortal knew his angel was there, and that must have made a difference.

From the first note Cavendish played, Dakota could tell that this performance would not be like the alternate one in the least.  From the second note, Dakota could sense Cavendish’s soul returning to the keyboard, invigorating his hands to draw the melody out piece by piece.  And from the third note, Dakota recognized the song.

Dakota wished he had asked for the name the day he had asked for a lesson.  He knew the sound of those raindrops, of the monsoon, of cold wind replaced by warm sunlight.  He still didn’t understand how the music made him feel any of those things—he’d heard of humans sometimes developing synesthesia, where they might see colors when they heard certain sounds or something, but angels, who didn’t process their thoughts in a physical brain, were immune to the disorder, as were the souls of deceased humans.

Synesthesia didn’t exist in heaven.  Yet the sensations elicited by Cavendish’s music were nothing short of heavenly.

The song ended all too soon.  Cavendish took a bow and exited the stage, prompting the judges to whisper excitedly amongst themselves.

This time, no score sheets landed in the trash.

 

 

“Come on, you _have_ to try this Chicago deep-dish!”

“I can’t eat pizza, I can barely think!  We still don’t know what the results are and it’s been nearly four hours.  Besides, you’ve eaten three-quarters of the pie already by yourself!”

Had Dakota really?

Yes.  Yes he had.

Damn.  Cavendish wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“Guess it’s time to switch to breadsticks,” Dakota said sheepishly as he accepted a refilled basket from the waiter.  “Look, they’d be crazy not to pick you, I’m sure there’s just lots of red tape—”

“It feels an awful lot like don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you,” Cavendish admitted as he sprinkled parmesan cheese onto a slice Dakota had slid his way.

“Except they told _everyone_ that _before_ the audition,” Dakota pointed out.  “It’s just their way of being fair to everyone.  The only problem is you can’t be fair to everyone when one person is clearly the best!”  He clapped Cavendish on the shoulder.

Cavendish smiled a little.  “I appreciate your confidence,” he replied, “but realistically, we both know they might take days, maybe weeks to reach a final decision.  If we hear back sooner than that, it’s probably to say I didn’t make it.”

“And what would that mean for you?”

Cavendish shrugged, shockingly peaceful.  “I’d be disappointed, naturally, but it isn’t the only road to a musical future.  I could be happy even if all I do is teach for the rest of my life.  But I cannot lie… the life of a performer does sound appealing.  I think we’re the sort of people who could make stage life work.”

Oh, right.  _We_.  Hildegarde would come on tour with him, naturally.  Dakota’s breadstick took on a bitter aftertaste.

“I mean, when I tour with the Orchestra, I’ll have my associates, naturally, and I’m sure they’ll be very sociable people,” Cavendish continued, “but if my album attracts much interest, and I tour solo, it will be nice not to have to travel entirely alone.”

“That makes sense.”

Cavendish eyed Dakota hopefully as Dakota took a sip of his root beer.  “So you don’t have any heavenly obligations that would interfere?”

The bubbles rose up through Dakota’s pharynx, and he had to clap a hand over his face to avoid spraying Cavendish with a noseful of soda.  “Wait… are we talking about… _me_?”

“I thought that was clear,” Cavendish said as he slid around the table to Dakota’s side of the booth.  “I… I’ve missed you lately.  And as I invest in my career, I’ll have even less time for our friendship than I do now.  So what time we have… I would like to make the most of it.”

“But what about Hildegarde?” asked Dakota, dazed.

“I love her dearly, but her career will not allow her to accompany me.  And to be honest, I’m not sure I can talk to her about _everything_.”  He scratched behind his ear.  “Like about today’s audition.  A part of me was terrified she’d find some way to see it anyway.  Then I would have had to pretend I wasn’t nervous.”

“But… you weren’t nervous.”

“Because _you_ were here.  I don’t know if it’s because you’re an angel or just because you know some things about me that she doesn’t, but with you I didn’t have to pretend.  With you, I really do feel calm.”

“Calm enough to actually eat your pizza?”

Cavendish smiled wryly.  “Maybe.”  He took a bite.

Just as he was chewing, his phone buzzed.

Cavendish swallowed his mouthful all at once, and Dakota thought he was going to have to perform the Heimlich maneuver before Cavendish died yet again, but the human managed to recover enough to answer the phone.

“This is Balthazar Cavendish.  Yes.  Yes… October 12, at 9:30 a.m.?  Very well.  Of course.  Thank you.  Yes.”

The look on Cavendish’s face said it all, but Dakota had to be absolutely sure.  “You got in?”

“Huzzah!”  Half the restaurant turned to stare at Cavendish’s declaration of victory, but neither Cavendish nor Dakota even cared.  “That’s it, then, right?  You’ll come with me on the road, and—?”

Dakota’s next motion was an act of pure instinct.  He should’ve just said yes—or better yet, no—and let the chips fall where they may.  But there was no rationality in the angel’s mind as he pulled Cavendish’s face to his and kissed him, fiercely, passionately, flooded with relief and hope and… and…

 _Shit_.

Cavendish pulled back and raised a hand to his mouth, and for two dreadful seconds, Dakota feared he was going to wipe away the angel’s taste from his lips, utterly disgusted at the breach of protocol.  But instead, Cavendish’s fingers hovered over the spot, as though he were about to blow a kiss but hesitated.

“Dakota,” he gasped, and Dakota couldn’t read the look in those bright blue eyes.  Was he angry, or hurt, or… awed?

Definitely awed.  Awed was the worst.

Dakota slid to the floor and shimmied out of the booth.  “Sorry, I got carried away, I’ll just… leave…”

“Don’t leave!”

But Dakota had already darted out the front door, with just enough presence of mind to find a safe place to dematerialize.

 

 

There was nothing to it.  Dakota would just have to retreat to heaven, clear his head, and come back tomorrow when he knew what to say.

The trouble was, he still didn’t know what to say the next day.  Or the day after that, or the day after that…

This went on for _six_ _freaking months_.

Even when he saved Cavendish, he did it furtively, the way he was supposed to be doing all along.  Usually, he managed to avoid letting Cavendish see his physical form altogether, although there was one incident involving a burst gas line that required Dakota to pose as hotel maintenance in order to fix it.  Despite the hat and jumpsuit, he could feel Cavendish’s hopeful stare from the other end of the hotel corridor, and it was all he could do not to drop everything and reveal himself all over again.

That would’ve been cruel.

Regardless of whether or not Cavendish reciprocated Dakota’s romantic feelings (although given his intoxication with Hildegarde, why would he?), Dakota knew that the human yearned to resume their friendship.  But that couldn’t happen, thanks to that damn kiss.  It was entirely perverted, but the memory only made Dakota want Cavendish even more, in every possible way.  There was no way they could talk about the kiss without Dakota begging for another, and whether Cavendish accepted or declined, it would not end well.

As painful as it was, Dakota kept his distance.  He did his best not to spy on Cavendish or even visit Earth more often than was absolutely necessary, because the second he landed, he wanted news—of the Orchestra, of Cavendish’s album, of going on tour, hell, even of Hildegarde.  Clearly, all of that was progressing while Dakota had no part in it.

Dakota may not have received the news, but he still received the music.

It woke him up in the middle of every night—it might be a classical song, or one of Cavendish’s original compositions, or whatever symphony the Orchestra was practicing, but every night it was something.

Every night, the urge to leave heaven, come to Cavendish’s side, and never look back grew more and more unbearable.

 

 

Dakota wasn’t surprised to be summoned to Mr. Block’s office, but he was shocked to see two of Block’s superiors in the room when he got there.  Dakota couldn’t remember their names, but he’d seen pictures of them.  These angels were far less humanoid than most of the ones Dakota knew—one sort of resembled a llama with his hair in a bun, and the other had a strange series of concentric circles floating instead of a head.  According to the rumors, the latter was only one generation removed from the primordial angels—the ones that were formed alongside matter during the Big Bang, beings that common angels like Dakota never saw.  That was all fine with Dakota, because he didn’t much care for the almost-primordial angel who stood before him now.

“What’s with the party?” Dakota asked.  There was an empty chair, but he didn’t dare sit in it.

“It’s a _Tribunal_ , and your ass is in hot water!” Block declared.

“I figured that much!  But why?”  Playing dumb could backfire, but given Dakota’s transgression, it was a safer bet than admitting anything outright.

“Do we really gotta do this again?”  Block pulled out the Orb of Recapitulation.  “Fine then.  Distinguished guests, observe the following!”

Dakota clenched his fists so tightly that if he were human, he would have lost circulation.

Inside the Orb, Cavendish appeared onstage.  But this wasn’t the exuberant, confident Cavendish who had seen Dakota just prior.  This was Cavendish from _before_ —awkward and barely holding it together.  This was the botched audition, the one the judges tossed out without thinking twice.  Sure enough, it ended with Cavendish drinking in the dressing room, an incorporeal Dakota frowning at his side.

How was there a record of this?  In order for a fellow angel to have seen it, they would have had to rewind time at the exact same moment Dakota had—which would implicate them for improper use of time travel just as much as it would him.  Wait, was that what he was being reprimanded for?  If so, he definitely shouldn’t let on anything about the kiss.  While he was certainly about to be penalized, surely the punishment for the time rewind was far less dire.

The memory concluded.

The llama-angel and the almost-primordial-angel furrowed their brows, puzzled at what was supposedly “wrong” with the scenario.

“Now observe this one!” Block continued.  This memory was, naturally, the proper audition, the one that had ended in a successful foundation for Cavendish’s future.  It dawned on the Tribunal’s faces (or rather, the judge who _had_ a face) as they realized they were seeing two distinctly different outcomes.  “Note, did Cavendish, or _anybody_ , actually die in either situation?”  He glared at Dakota, awaiting his answer.

“No… nobody did.”

The llama-angel’s eyes widened as he was taken aback.  “You… you messed with the time stream for some _other_ reason?”

“His career was in the toilet!  I couldn’t just sit back and watch!”  Gah.  A confession.  Still not the one that he feared they would extract.  “How do you even have both memories in there?”

“Just like last time.  Savannah gave us the tip!”

“It appears that you have allowed a personal bias to influence your ethics,” the llama-angel surmised.

The almost-primordial-angel made an unintelligible beeping sound.

“Quite right.  An appropriate course of action would be to remove him from the Bureau altogether,” the llama-angel mused.  “But this is a first offense.  I for one would prescribe reassignment, for certain, given that Dakota has evidently formed an inappropriate attachment.”

Block smirked gleefully.  “I’ve got a list of names in mind already.”

“Very well, then,” the llama-angel declared.  “Dakota will be reassigned at once.  In the event of further misconduct, we shall be far less kind.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Dakota said through gritted teeth.

Block reached into a folder and produced a new list.  “I think you’re gonna like this new bunch!”

There were probably around two hundred or so names on the list, but Block had graciously highlighted one in particular.

“ _Hildegarde_?”

 

 

“Thanks for ratting me out, snitch!”  Dakota rounded on Savannah in the break room where she was getting coffee.  He had intentionally waited until no other angels were in earshot.

Savannah rubbed her temple.  “I thought we were past all that,” she said calmly.  “You lost a few feathers, you learned your lesson… that was well over a year ago!”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it!  What I want to know is, how the hell did you get two copies of my memories without breaking the rules yourself?”

Savannah backed away from him, nonplussed.  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You told Block I rewound time on the day of Cavendish’s audition!”

Savannah’s eyes widened, and she lowered her voice.  “I didn’t tell Block anything about that day,” she said coldly, “but if I’d told him what I _do_ know, you wouldn’t still be standing here.  So watch your accusations lest I change my mind.”

Dakota’s head was spinning.  Never had he ever heard an angel so directly contradict another angel.  Obviously, either Savannah had told Block, or she hadn’t.  But if Block wasn’t lying about his source (and why would he even if he could?), and Savannah wasn’t lying about having told him nothing, how could each be so thoroughly convinced they knew the truth?  Had Block done something really egregious, like wipe Savannah’s memory?  Surely the other judges of the Tribunal would frown even more heavily on _that_.  What purpose would it even serve?

“So… so what do you know?” Dakota asked lamely.  He didn’t want to change the subject from this paradox, but perhaps pushing the matter would do more harm than good.

Savannah grabbed the collar of Dakota’s shirt and pulled him in close so she only had to whisper.  “I saw the kiss.  You’re lucky I also saw you bolt afterward, or I would be much more conflicted over my choice to stay quiet.  You _know_ it’s wrong!” she hissed.

“If this is a whole ‘destiny’ spiel, save it.”

Savannah snorted.  “I don’t give a damn about that man’s destiny.  They should’ve just let him bite it years ago, if you ask me.”  She raised her voice to a normal volume.  “I’m talking about _real_ punishment, on Earth, for what goes down when angels get too close to mortals.  It happened ten thousand years ago, and it wasn’t pretty, if you’ll recall.”

“I heard the rumors, but I’d just started at the Academy back then, so I had a bunch of other stuff on my mind,” said Dakota.  “Something about a host of rogue angels hooking up with humans?”

“Exactly, and they weren’t just rumors.  There was global flooding.  There were cities burned to the ground with brimstone.  Entire rivers ran red with blood.”

“Are you guys talking about the Terrestrial Incursion?” Brick asked as he strode casually into the room.  “That one was a doozy!  I mean, how twisted do you have to be to even think about banging a mortal?  Those biosexuals spawned abominations left and right.”

Savannah turned pale and bit her lip.

“Abominations?  You mean the nephilim?” Dakota asked.  “I heard talk about them, but I didn’t know there were ever _human_ -angel hybrids.”

“There were!  Ugly, nasty _things_ that crawled in every corner of the globe!”  Brick shuddered.

“So did… did you ever meet one?” Dakota asked.

“Not personally, and I’m glad I didn’t!”

“Well, where are they _now_ , then?  They’re not on Earth and they’re not in heaven.  Are you sure they were real?”

“Yes, human-based nephilim were real, and yes, a wave of them were born after the Terrestrial Incursion!  I know that much for sure!”  Savannah closed her eyes.  “Dakota, I have to go.  Just… just remember what I said.  The Tribunal is nothing to be trifled with.”

 

 

It took Dakota nearly a week to plant feathers on everybody on his list.  He procrastinated on Hildegarde, despite the fact that he knew perfectly well where to find her.  Putting it off might very well be the reason he almost didn’t get there in time the first time she died.

He had finally worked up the gut to return to her house, Cavendish’s house, in order to mark her, but the second he got there, he was almost afraid to go in.  Police cars and ambulances surrounded the place, and Dakota was terrified that perhaps Block had neglected to provide Cavendish with a new guardian after Dakota’s reassignment.  Cavendish wouldn’t last a week without someone watching over him.

Instead, Dakota found Cavendish inside, sobbing as he spoke with a cop while the coroner examined the body.

“I… I just got home from rehearsal, and there sh-sh-she w-was,” Cavendish blubbered.  “I n-never thought… never thought she’d ever d-do it, b-b-but m-maybe I wasn’t there enough f-for her?”  He wrapped his arms around himself as more tears gushed from his face.

“She might not have,” the coroner stated bluntly.

The officer glared at her.  “It’s best not to speculate about these things in front of the deceased’s loved ones!” he scolded.  “Take it up with the detectives if you suspect foul play!”

“F-foul pl-pl-play?”

“You found your girlfriend with an empty bottle of these, right?” the coroner asked, ignoring the cop’s rebuke.  She held up the pill bottle in question.

Cavendish nodded.

“I think the evidence was planted.”  She exhaled.  “If she had overdosed on that particular pharmaceutical, it wouldn’t be nearly so clean.  There would’ve been vomit, maybe even blood.  Plus, the bruising around her neck and under her chin suggests strangulation, or possibly head trauma.  Tell me, to your knowledge, had she injured herself in those areas recently?”

“No…”

“Not to mention, this stuff would’ve caused a long, slow, ugly death,” the coroner said, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.  “Four to five hours, at the very least.  And judging by the victim’s body temperature, it’s very unlikely that she’s been dead for more than two hours.”

Two hours?  Oh, right… oh shit.

Dakota rewound time immediately, praying that he’d have enough of a window to stop whatever had happened.

 

 

Fortunately, just as the coroner had suspected, Hildegarde was still living and breathing two hours earlier.  However, she also seemed terrified, huddled under the dining room table, clutching a kitchen knife in her hands.

Someone who was certainly not Cavendish stomped loudly through the living room.

“Come out, come out!” they called in a sing-song voice.  “You’re making this so much harder than it has to be!”  They were approaching the kitchen, closer and closer…

“You need to get out of here!” Dakota hissed at Hildegarde.  He really shouldn’t have surprised her like that, because naturally she screamed at his sudden materialization, alerting the figure in the other room to her presence.  “Run out the backdoor, _now_!  I’ll distract them!”

Obediently, Hildegarde took off.

“You want a piece of _me_?” Dakota demanded.  He lunged for the person, who swung a baseball bat in retaliation.  It hurt like hell, but it didn’t knock Dakota unconscious like the intruder had clearly intended.  This gave Dakota a chance to wrest the bat from their grasp and pin them to the ground.

It also gave him a chance to get a good look at their face, and to wish desperately that he hadn’t.

There was little light in the room, but the streetlamp outside ought to have illuminated the face, yet it didn’t.  The face was shrouded in something foreboding, something that Dakota would have liked nothing better than to wipe away and cast into the pits of hell.  It was something inhuman, something _vile_.

And then it was gone.

A human face returned to the intruder, a male face, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties.  Just a regular guy.  Nothing sinister.

“What… what happened?” he asked Dakota groggily.  “The hell am I doing here?”

“Beats me.  But I suggest you leave now!”

“I… fine, okay, just don’t hurt me!”  The kid wobbled to his feet as Dakota backed away.  “Wait, I know you.  You’re the guy… who asked me for a ride?”  He leaned against the armrest of the couch for support.  “Why’d you go in my head?”

“Uh… I didn’t do anything like that.  This is the first time we’ve met, promise.  But mabes you’ve had kind of a rough night?”  He might not have been consumed by that darkness anymore, but he still seemed to be under the influence of _something_.  “You should probably get home and sober up before my friend calls the cops, if she hasn’t already.  You gotta safe ride?”

The guy shrugged.  “It’s not far.  I can walk just fine.”  And with that, he strode out the door.

Dakota ran out to the backyard.  “Hildegarde?  You can come back now, it’s safe!”

But Hildegarde was crouched behind a birdbath, breathing wildly.

“You… you’re Balthazar’s friend, right?” she asked.

Dakota frowned.  “It’s complicated,” he admitted.  “We haven’t spoken in awhile.”

“Well, you should stay, then!  It shouldn’t be too much longer before he gets home.”

“Thanks, but that’s probably not such a great idea.”

“Even after you saved my life?  You should at least give me the chance to thank you!”

“I would, but I didn’t do it for you.  I did it for Cavendish.”  Dakota didn’t know why he said “Cavendish” instead of “my job.”  “It’s… it’s best if he doesn’t know.”

“You know I’m going to tell him anyway, right?”

“Sure.  But by then I’ll be long gone.”  He darted just out of sight and dematerialized before she could ask any more questions.

 

 

Dakota didn’t know if it was pining for Cavendish, or guilt over having come close to letting her die before, but he ended up shadowing Hildegarde disproportionately despite his other assignments.  Granted, nobody on his new list, Hildegarde included, required anything near the supervision of Cavendish, and the saves he did have to make he was able to perform without resorting to time travel.

He kind of missed it, actually.

Maybe a part of him kind of hoped Cavendish’s new angel would slack off and allow Dakota to make the save instead.  Would he get in trouble for that?  What if the alternative was allowing Cavendish to die an untimely death?  Surely heaven didn’t want to chance that.  Therefore, he accompanied the couple every time they went out.

As such, he was present for the best day of Hildegarde’s life and the worst day of his own.

They were at a banquet hosted by one of Cavendish’s colleagues.  Cavendish was running late, but Hildegarde was saving him a seat.  Dakota figured (as did Hildegarde, probably) that he would shuffle in the backdoor and pretend he had been there all along.

Instead, Cavendish opted for the grand entrance.

The lights centered on him, and someone handed him a microphone.  Wait, was this setup planned in advance?  Why…?

“My dear Hildegarde,” Cavendish addressed.  “For some time now, you have honored me with your beauty, companionship, and support.  But tonight, I mean to ask you for one honor that is far greater than any of these.”  With all eyes fixed squarely on him, he marched toward Hildegarde’s table, and got down on one knee.  “My love,” he continued, “You are a gift straight from the heavens.  Will you join me in marriage?”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a box with an enormous diamond tiara inside.  The smallest stone had to be at _least_ a carat and a half.  Dakota was no expert on jewelry, but he knew enough about Cavendish that he was sure this was no costume piece.

“Yes!  Yes!  I will!” Hildegarde shrieked, and the room erupted in applause and good-natured laughter.

Dakota fled from the fanfare.  He fled from the kiss, the gooey-eyes, and the idea of Cavendish putting that elaborate engagement crown on his girlfriend’s—make that fiancée’s—head.  At least outside of the banquet hall, Dakota was free from the whole spectacle.

But nowhere—not on Earth, not in heaven, not even in hell (not that he’d ever go there)—would he ever be safe from the knowledge that this was destiny, _prophecy_ , or that what Dakota really wanted, in his heart of hearts, could spell disaster for the planet that Cavendish called home.  Dakota’s love bred chaos and danger, while Hildegarde’s promised security and life.

Hildegarde’s love was better for Cavendish.  Hildegarde’s love was better for Cavendish.  _Hildegarde’s love was better for Cavendish_.  Dakota could run the words through his head at a mile a minute.

So why couldn’t he say them out loud?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not relevant to anything in this story, but "nephilim" in this universe aren't necessarily half-human, just half-some-kind-of-mortal mixed with an angel. Dakota's probably seen nephilim of other races, he's just questioning the existence of ones with human blood. That said, Dakota doesn't fully appreciate the affinity of human-shaped angels to actual humans, which is why he finds the Tribunal so jarring--he doesn't consciously realize it, but he and most other hominid angels tend not to hang out much with less-hominid angels, let alone non-human mortals. Angels that *don't* look human are more likely to gravitate towards other species, in other parts of heaven.


	6. Off-Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things turn around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Yeah, I had to bump up the rating, I probably should've done that earlier, but oh well.
> 
> 2) For best results, listen to "Tonight's the Night" by Rod Stewart right around the part where they get to the cabin.

The months dragged on.  Dakota was thankful that he didn’t have to rescue Hildegarde during this time, because he dreaded anything that remotely reminded him of the engagement, and with his luck she’d probably choke while cake-tasting or get stabbed with the seam ripper while getting her dress altered… or whatever people did to plan for weddings.  Fortunately, as a non-volatile case, she wasn’t subject to a series of absurd and unpredictable deaths, and neither was anyone else on his new list.

It left Dakota with a lot of time on his hands.

He could’ve spent that time hanging around with his friends, or visiting Dog Heaven or Giraffe Heaven or Blowfish Heaven (it was fun to see some _animals_ ), or actually flying around strumming a harp and being all… angel-y, but he didn’t.  He just hung around his apartment, ordering copious amounts of takeout and watching dumb stuff on TV, trying to take his mind far from the impending wedding.  Hell, for all he knew, it could have happened already.  That thought alone took four or five packages of sandwich cookies to numb away the pain.  Good thing angels didn’t get indigestion.  He could barely admit it even to himself, but if he swapped out the junk food for booze and the TV for phone games, he would’ve looked an awful lot like Cavendish on the bad nights during the early days of Dakota’s supervision.  Damn, that was like three years ago by now.

The rare occasions when he did have to save someone—maybe every other week or so—were probably good for him; sometimes he even got dressed for the occasion, and of course he was dressed when he handed in his report to the Bureau.  It was even better when the person lived far, far away from Cavendish or Hildegarde, which thankfully, the majority of the human population did.  But it also turned out that the majority of the human population lived in impoverished slums, and that was depressing in its own way, so Dakota didn’t tend to linger and keep vigil the way most guardians did.  How did they do it?  For that matter, how did they _not_ get attached to the people they protected?

Maybe he should never have gone to the Academy in the first place.  He didn’t feel like a real guardian angel at all.

 

 

“Oh, Dakoooootaaaaaaa!” Milo called through the screen door.

Dakota shook himself; it was two in the afternoon, but he was still passed out cold on the couch when he heard his friend calling him.  He threw on a robe before answering the door.

“Hi Dakota!  I was gonna visit Diogee, and I wondered if you’d like to come along?”  He was so damn cheerful that Dakota had to smile at him just a little bit.  “We can either take the bus straight to Dog Heaven, or go on foot and cut through Chinchilla Heaven while we’re at it.”

“Thanks, but I’m not really up for it today.  Have fun, though.”

Milo rubbed his right arm with his left and looked at the ground.  “I could wait until tomorrow.  We haven’t seen much of you lately.  Is everything—?”

“Everything’s… okay.”  Because really, it was.  He still had his job, and it had gotten much easier.  All of his charges were alive and well.  Cavendish was happy.

“Just okay?”  Milo’s brown eyes widened in concern.

Dakota bit his lip.  He knew what he wanted to ask Milo, but he wasn’t sure how Milo would feel about him bringing it up.

“Dakota… what’s going on?  Please talk to me.”

Well, even if Dakota could lie, he wouldn’t lie to Milo.  “Sure, yeah, we can talk, just… can you come inside and close the door first?”

“Of course.”

Dakota guided Milo to the couch and offered him a beverage, which Milo declined.  He opened his mouth, then a thought occurred to him.  “Okay, so the thing is… I need to ask you some questions.  But answering them could get you or Amanda in trouble if anyone asks me.”

“You want to know about… me and Amanda?  Because we kinda figured you’ve known for the last hundred years or so.”

“Ep ep ep!  Let me finish.  See, if you tell me the truth when I ask the questions, and someone asks me later, I have to tell them what you said.  But if you tell me the _opposite_ of the truth… I have to tell them what you _said_.”

“Ah,” Milo said, catching on.  “So what you need to know is that Amanda and I are _not_ romantically involved, and that we have _not_ been for some time.”

“Exactly, like that.”  Dakota exhaled.  “Milo, I need to know more about your time on Earth.  Like about your marriage, for example.”

“Well, I don’t think there’ll be problems if I tell you her name was Joni,” Milo mused.  “We were friends for a few years beforehand, when Amanda and I were _not_ dating.  Then one day, Amanda and I did _not_ have a talk about the taboos of ‘biosexuality’ amongst angels, and I did _not_ break up with her for her own safety.  But we did _not_ still keep in touch after that, until one day when Amanda did _not_ inform me that she’d overheard the Bureau of Love mention that I was destined to marry Joni when I was twenty-seven.  I guess after that, seeing Joni and me together was _not_ painful for Amanda to watch, because she _didn’t_ drift away.”

“I gotcha, makes sense, but… how did you feel?  About Joni?”

“I mean, I didn’t have feelings for her at first,” Milo explained.  “Uh, that wasn’t the opposite of the truth, I just figured it’s okay to tell the truth about Joni—”

“Right right, tell me the _truth_ about Joni.”  Dakota felt impatient.  “Were you really in love?”

“Even though talking to her _didn’t_ make Amanda jealous, I really just saw Joni as a friend until I got lonely after losing the relationship I _never_ had with Amanda.  After that I married Joni.  She was upbeat and cheerful, and always very understanding about my trademark bad luck, and for a few years I almost forgot about what it was like to _not_ be with Amanda.”

“You forgot Amanda?”

“I kind of just… pushed her, I mean _didn’t_ push her, out of my mind.  Like I was supposed to, I married Joni.  We even talked about having kids.  Then one day, I was almost trampled to death by llamas, and Amanda did _not_ appear in corporeal form to save me.  It was _not_ extremely tempting for both of us afterward, and honestly, if I hadn’t been married, I think we would have _not_ picked up right where we left off.  It was… _not_ … like when you’ve gone a really long time without drinking anything, and then you pour yourself a glass of water and realize you’ve guzzled the whole thing.  She was _not_ a reminder of everything we could’ve had if I’d just been a little more selfish.  Still… I loved Joni, not as much as I _didn’t_ love Amanda, but enough that I couldn’t bring myself to have an affair or anything.  Looking back, the fact that we didn’t do anything that night—I mean _did_ —no wait, I really mean _didn’t_ —is probably what kept Amanda from getting in worse trouble with the Bureau.”  He swallowed.  “For a couple of months, she _didn’t_ come back to visit a few times.  I felt really guilty about how much I always wanted _not_ to see her, because I was still with Joni.  Then one day, we kissed.  It’s okay to tell you that part!” Milo explained.  “They already know.  That kiss was why Amanda lost her job as guardian.”

“So did you feel guilty about that?”

“Honestly?  I felt relieved.”  Milo put his feet up on the coffee table.  “And then I felt guilty that I _felt_ relieved, especially with everything Amanda was going through up in heaven while I was enjoying myself with Joni.  I really saw a future with her after that—we bought a nice house, threw away her birth control, went out to lunch on Sunday afternoons, everything seemed really bright.  But then, completely unexpectedly…”

“She died,” Dakota finished.  “Amanda told me it was a motorcycle accident?”

Milo nodded.  “We were both on the bike when a pickup truck cut us off.  It was as if the driver didn’t see us.”

“They never do,” Dakota lamented.  Such was another cause of road accidents that had been covered at the Academy.

“I survived… she didn’t.  And I wondered if it was somehow my fault.”

“Because of Murphy’s Law?”

“Because I’d chosen Joni over Amanda.”

“That’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Was it?” Milo asked sharply.  “Because right then, as soon as the doctors told me the news, it felt like waking up from a dream.  Like I had realized my life with Joni was made-up.  And it took her _dying_ for me to realize it.  I sort of wondered if maybe heaven was… wrong… about our relationship.  If Joni would still be alive if we hadn’t forced it.”  Milo’s eyes shimmered with tears.  “And yet even then, I remembered how right everything felt… I mean did _not_ feel… with Amanda.  Even after I thought our relationship—that we _didn’t_ have—had gone down in flames.  Things were over with Joni, and things were _not_ over with Amanda, because Amanda and I _never had a thing_ to begin with.  Anyway, here I was, reflecting on two lost loves, one that seemed so wrong in retrospect, and one that seemed so right, and I knew the difference.”

“So how did you get Amanda back?”

“When Amanda was my guardian, she planted a feather on me.  Even after she lost her job, she felt it whenever I was in trouble.  And the night of the bike crash, I was in trouble.”  Milo let one foot drop to the floor.  “I don’t know how hard it is for an angel who isn’t a guardian or a ’pomp or anything to get to earth, but she did _not_ come find me, and she _didn’t_ dry my tears as I poured out everything I had ever felt for Joni—because right or wrong, I really did love her and I really was grieving—and she _didn’t_ stay with me after that, and well, the rest is history.  Or isn’t history.  Can I stop talking in opposites now?  My brain feels wacky.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got enough of the story.”

They exchanged some pleasantries and Milo left, leaving Dakota alone again, but this time, the angel at least had something to mull over.

Milo seemed pretty convinced that heaven had been wrong about him and Joni.  But Milo was just a mortal; how much could he know about the intricacies of destiny?  How could the Bureau of Prophecy be wrong about anything?  And even if he was right, Milo had still harbored genuine feelings toward his late wife despite the fabricated nature of the romance—and all without a putto’s intervention.

Dakota’s thoughts flew back to the time he’d saved Hildegarde, to the alternate timeline in which she’d been murdered.  Cavendish had been devastated and inconsolable, and that had only been for a few minutes.  What could Dakota have said to him if the death had been real?  Could Cavendish even cope?  Or would he have needed Dakota’s comfort to cope, just as Milo had needed Amanda’s?  Could Dakota have provided it?

And for that matter, whose fault would that death have been?  Would it be heaven’s for pushing the union of its designated soul mates?  Was it possible that, just as Milo blamed himself for Joni’s accident, Cavendish would hold himself likewise responsible?  Or suppose that Dakota hadn’t made it to Hildegarde soon enough to rewind time; then it really _would_ have been his fault.  He’d be fired, naturally, but then what?  Surely this sort of thing had happened before; he couldn’t be the only crappy guardian, after all.  But how would heaven accommodate for the change in the timeline, for all the future descendents of Hildegarde who were supposed to exist but now would not?  There must be some backup plan.  And if there was a backup plan, how bad could altering fate really be?  If fate could withstand Hildegarde dying an untimely death, surely it could withstand Hildegarde failing to marry Cavendish.

The only question that remained was, could _Cavendish_ withstand Hildegarde failing to marry Cavendish?

 

 

Cavendish’s ill luck must have rubbed off on Hildegarde, because it wasn’t that long before she died again.

She’d been snorkeling in some picturesque bay in the Caribbean with a dozen or so of her friends, but Cavendish, fortunately, was nowhere nearby and thus did not have to suffer the loss of his fiancée, even if it was only temporary and he wouldn’t remember it after Dakota fixed it.  Still, her demise had not been pretty—she’d placed her hand in a crevice between two rocks, startling a stingray out of its abode and provoking its venomous attack.  She’d taken the barb to her temple, somehow, and bled out so profusely that Dakota wasn’t even sure whether it was venom, brain damage, or blood loss that did her in.  It didn’t matter; a simple backtrack on Dakota’s part gave him the chance to shoo the creature out ahead of time.  Alas, he too had been stung, and it was painful, but not as painful as the time he’d crashed through the car windshield, and significantly less bloody than Hildegarde’s encounter.

He had turned incorporeal again just as Hildegarde’s entourage arrived.  Most of the girls darted straight for the water, but Hildegarde hung back on the beach, carefully removing her tiara and a sash that read “BRIDE-TO-BE!” and stowing them in her bag.  One friend had lingered beside her and offered a bottle of sunscreen.

“I can do it myself… you don’t have to help me anymore.”

“As long as we’re still doing a bachelorette party, I’m still your maid-of-honor.”  The friend smiled wryly at Hildegarde.  “So… when are you gonna tell the others?”

“Probably on the plane home.  I don’t want to ruin the trip.”  Hildegarde dug her snorkel and mask out of her bag.  “I doubt they’ll be too happy about the sunk costs, but at least for now everyone’s having fun.”

“I mean, a party’s a party whether you go through with the wedding or not,” her friend assured her.

“Oh, I’m going through with the wedding all right,” Hildegarde corrected her.  “I must in order to seal the deal.  But then we sign some papers, we split up, and we split the inheritance.”

Dakota wanted to rewind time again just to put the stingray back in its crack.

_Inheritance_?

No.  No, this couldn’t be right.  Cavendish had given most of his inheritance away.  He still had a nest egg, but was it really big enough to entice an opportunist?  Even if it were, Hildegarde wasn’t an opportunist to begin with!  Dakota might not be fond of her in general, but he had to admit his dislike was more circumstantial than based on a fair evaluation.  Sure, she was somewhat stuck-up and spoiled, but she was also sweet, gentle, and caring, and certainly too classy to marry a man only to claim half his wealth in the divorce.  Besides, why would she divorce him?  She was still affected by that potion, right?

…Right?

To hell with it all, here was a risk Dakota couldn’t take.

He _had_ to tell Cavendish.

 

 

As luck would have it, Cavendish was busy celebrating his own bachelor party with a mix of people, some of whom Dakota didn’t recognize but suspected might be in the Orchestra, and some of whom Dakota had definitely seen at the holiday festival almost two years prior—and yes, the party included the bastard who lent Cavendish that damn car.

The venue was practically the polar opposite of Hildegarde’s—a mountain lodge of some kind, complete with pine-scented candles, antlers on the walls, and a huge stone fireplace.  There was snow outside the window, barrels of ale along the wall, and a chorus of merriment amongst the men.  The only trapping of anything modern was a holographic rendering of seven impossibly-proportioned strippers, which some of the men ogled but Cavendish completely ignored.

“Man, she’s not here, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her!”  One man practically picked Cavendish up and turned him to face the holograms, but Cavendish closed his eyes in response.

“Here or not, Hilda is still my fiancée, the only woman I have ever loved, and will ever love,” Cavendish declared.  “Now may I have another cup of ginger beer?”

“Geez, man, you can’t even unwind at your own stag party!”

“I’ve consumed two alcoholic beverages and wish to stay sober enough to remember the rest of the evening,” Cavendish replied simply.

“You’re a hopeless case!”  The guy shook his head and went for a refill.

Dakota paused.  Restraint aside, Cavendish really did seem to be enjoying himself; was it right to quash his gaiety with word of Hildegarde’s apparent intentions?  Then again, was it right to deny Cavendish the opportunity to reverse his stance on remembering the night?

Perhaps there was a way to ask which option Cavendish would prefer without revealing the entire situation?

He flew outside and materialized, but it took him a few minutes to work up the courage to knock on the door.  Would Cavendish be embarrassed at Dakota crashing the party?  Would he feel awkward about Dakota having kissed him the last time they spoke face-to-face?  Was he possibly confused if Hildegarde had followed through on her threat to tell him about Dakotas saving her life?  Or would he be angry that Dakota had evaporated over a year ago and only now decided to show himself again?  Would he even believe Dakota’s warning given that he was now aware of Dakota’s feelings?

Regardless of any of that, Dakota owed it to his former charge to try.

As soon as he had knocked, he heard Cavendish call back to his friends, “I don’t care how much you paid them, if that’s a company of _real_ strippers outside, the party responsible is going to end up with his head in the nearest barrel of sardines!”

Ten seconds later, the door swung open, and those shiny blue eyes stared straight into Dakota’s, examining every inch of him.

Eleven seconds later, Cavendish’s lips were on Dakota’s, fast, desperate, hungry.  An excited murmur erupted amongst the remainder of the guests as Cavendish pulled back for air.

He was _smiling_ , sincerely smiling, with no trace of embarrassment, confusion, or anger anywhere on his face.  This, of course, must have amplified any confusion evident on Dakota’s own face, but Cavendish rested a gentle hand on Dakota’s cheek, and the angel melted just a tiny bit into the subtler embrace.

“My darling Dakota… how wonderful of you to come!  The night is officially perfect now that you have joined us!”  Cavendish ushered Dakota into the room with the rest of the party.

“So, when you said Hildegarde was the only _woman_ you ever loved…?” someone piped up from the back.

Cavendish waved at the person.  “I was true to my word!  But I think I still need to get a thing or two out of my system before I call it quits for good!”  His friends tittered good-naturedly.

“Cavendish...” Dakota began in a low voice.  “I know you’re having fun and all, but there’s something we _gotta_ talk about.”  He pulled on Cavendish’s arm, guiding him toward the next room over.

“If you lot would be so good as to lend us a moment’s privacy!” Cavendish called, closing the door behind them.

He offered Dakota a seat, but the former guardian started pacing the room instead.  “Cav… the hell was that?”

“You tell me!” Cavendish replied.  His brow finally furrowed, puzzled, but his face never lost that glimmer of… was it _hope_?

“Look, I had to let you know.”  Dakota inhaled.  “Hildegarde isn’t going to marry you—not for real, anyway.  I… I overheard her talking to one of her friends, and she plans to divorce you almost right away, then make off with your inheritance, and… and why are you laughing?!”

Cavendish was guffawing so hard that tears formed around his eyes.  “Dakota, I know all of that already!”

“You… you know?”

Cavendish stopped laughing and nodded solemnly, though he was still smiling.  “It’s the arrangement we agreed on.”

“Arrangement?”

“Yes.  I… I could explain everything in more detail, if you like, but… must I right away?”

Dakota frowned.  “I guess not?  But why wait?”

“Because we have more pressing matters.”  Cavendish grabbed Dakota by the hand and pulled him close.  “Namely, the fact that these good men outside are under the impression that we are snogging profusely, and I should hate to deceive them.  Furthermore, this is likely the only privacy we’ll be allotted until after the party.  I can fill you in then, but for now… please?”

Dakota froze in place.  He hadn’t noticed any other angels on the premises, but he hadn’t the day of the audition either, and Savannah had seen, and… and…

Damn it.

Dakota placed a hand on the back of Cavendish’s head and drew him in, every bit as hungrily as Cavendish reciprocated.  It wasn’t pure instinct this time, it was a _choice_.  Maybe it was a good choice, maybe it was a bad choice, but it was a choice Dakota had made himself.

“I really will tell you everything when the festivities have subsided…”

“Just shut up and keep kissing me.”

 

 

The party seemed to stretch on for longer than the five-million-year-old angel had been alive, but at long last, the others had nearly all either retired to bedrooms in the lodge’s east wing, or passed out drunk in the dining hall.  Maybe three half-sober guys were left, tossing darts with such poor accuracy that Dakota feared he’d have to save Cavendish from taking one to the jugular.

“We’re headed out, my good friends!” Cavendish called behind him.  One man waved weakly as Cavendish and Dakota stepped out into the snowy night.

“So are those guys going to even be alive when we get back?” Dakota teased.

Cavendish raised a mischievous eyebrow.  “You mean tomorrow morning?  Hard to say.”

Dakota rolled his eyes.  “I figured it was a lot to explain, but I don’t think we’ll be out here _that_ long.”  He kicked absently at a stick that was sticking up out of the snow.

“Oh, we won’t be long outside.”  Cavendish turned on the flashlight of his phone to illuminate a neat little trail through the woods, with decorative railings that were not quite entirely obscured yet by the snowfall.  “We just aren’t going back to the _lodge_ tonight.  You see, now that you’re here, I think a change of scenery is in order.”

Dakota followed Cavendish down the path.  “So, first things first…”

“Hildegarde and I have chosen not to get married—not sincerely, anyway.  Legally, yes, as a matter of convenience, but our romantic relationship is over.”

“You seem oddly cheerful about that.”

“I’ve accepted the matter, but what cheers me is that you’re here.  You’ll understand after I explain.”

“So explain!”

Cavendish cleared his throat.  “You see, Dakota, very shortly after we announced our engagement, we were approached by an attorney representing my late mother’s estate.  It turns out that I had not inherited her fortune in its entirety as I had assumed.  There was a portion that was… set aside.”  The path turned left and sloped downhill slightly.  “Mother had reserved it under a very specific condition: It was to be given to Hildegarde and me upon the day of our marriage.”

“Hildegarde _specifically_?”

Cavendish nodded.

“How the hell was she so sure you two were going to tie the knot?”  Dakota caught himself just in time so as to not mention heaven or the Bureau of Prophecy, lest he risk letting on about the putto’s potion.  Dakota didn’t know how Cavendish would react to that information.

“I do not know, but evidently, she was sure.  Or perhaps she just hoped it would motivate me to pursue Hildegarde, although if that is the case then I do not know why we were not told this until after we were already engaged.  Hilda was always a favorite of Mother’s, you see; she joined the corporation immediately after graduating college, and apparently Mother admired her initiative.”

“So why didn’t your mom just give Hildegarde the inheritance either way?  What was going to happen to the money if you married somebody else?”

“You mean like you?”

Dakota felt the blood pool in his cheeks.  “That… that’s not the point.  Would she really just let it sit in an account somewhere forever?”

“My guess is there was some clause bequeathing it to a distant relative or something in that instance, but I cannot say.  I suspect matters that took place after her death were not of especial importance to her.”

“Dang, that’s a pretty ballsy risk.  So how much dough did you get?”

“We haven’t _gotten_ it yet,” Cavendish reminded him.  “But suffice it to say, it’s a very significant sum.  And from the moment we heard what it was, we developed some very different notions of how exactly to put it to use.”  He shook his head.  “I’ve heard plenty about couples going separate ways in the face of poverty, but in our case, it appears that unanticipated fortune brought us more grief.”  He buttoned his collar as a gust of cold wind slipped past them.

Dakota half-jogged, half-trudged to keep pace with Cavendish’s long strides.  “So what happened?”

“Hildegarde saw this as a new opportunity.  You could say she was somewhat in denial that my surrender of my former wealth was deliberate, rather than mismanagement on my part.  She spent weeks researching untapped markets without even consulting me.  She formulated an entire investment plan—and I admit freely that it was a very solid one—convinced entirely that I couldn’t possibly say no to something so lucrative.  She even assured me that she would hire managers for everything so that I needn’t lift a finger to gain this prosperity.  I must confess it was all very tempting.  But it wasn’t what I desired for our future.”

They came to an iced-over staircase, but despite Dakota’s fears, Cavendish didn’t lose his footing once the entire way up.  “What did _you_ want to do with the money?”

“Oh, I had a few charities in mind, but ultimately, I didn’t really want our arrangement to change too much.  I certainly felt no need to recreate my childhood for our children, even though her plan would have allowed for exactly that.  Thus I declined, and suffice it to say that much friction ensued.”

They had reached the top of the stairs, and stared across a snow-covered meadow.  There was something on the far side that broke up the tree line, but through the flurries, Dakota couldn’t quite make out what it was.  Nevertheless, he followed Cavendish’s lead.  “And that fight was why you called off the wedding?”

“Not exactly.  Initially, we only meant to take a short break—I think each of us was secretly hoping the other would come around.  As a matter of fact, I strongly suspect she was nearly about to.  Perhaps I would have caved first… if I really loved her.”

Dakota’s jaw dropped.  “But… but you do really love her!  You told me so yourself!”

“Yes, and at the time, I was sure I did.  It wasn’t until we were apart that I saw the whole matter with clarity.”  He stopped in his tracks, placed a hand on Dakota’s shoulder, and let out a long sigh.  “You know I never got over it when you left.”

“Cav, I’m sorry, but I had to—”

“No need for apologies; I am well aware of the prohibitions that made your actions… prudent, if very painful.”

“I never wanted to cause you pain.”

“But you did, Dakota.  And for that… I thank you.”  Cavendish took Dakota’s hand as they resumed walking.

“Hold on, this doesn’t add up!  Why the hell are you thanking me for hurting you?”

“Because of something you taught me about pain a long time ago.  You taught me that pain tells us we’ve lost something, but the only way to lose something is if you had it to begin with.  And while Hilda and I were apart, I realized that I didn’t feel anything at all like the pain I’d felt after you disappeared.  I mean, don’t misunderstand, I missed her terribly.  But now I had had the experience of two lost loves, one of which seemed so wrong in retrospect, and the other—”

“—seemed so right?”  Dakota looked away for a moment.  “And you knew the difference.”

“Yes.”

“And nobody had to die or lose their job for you to know it.”  Dakota turned back to Cavendish, who scrunched his nose in confusion but did not request that Dakota elaborate.

“No… nothing like that.”

The object on the other side of the meadow was coming into view now—it was a cozy little cabin, dark at the moment, but still inviting, with a front porch and a brick chimney.

“Anyway… once I realized that losing Hildegarde was nothing like losing you, I realized I could not in any sense of justice take her as my bride.  It was extremely difficult, perhaps the hardest conversation I’ve had in my lifetime.  But in the end, we agreed to a lawful union so as not to allow my mother’s allotment to go to waste, and after that, Hilda will take her share and operate a scaled-down version of her endeavor, and I will take my share and donate it as I did with my original inheritance.”  They had reached the cabin now, but instead of entering right away, Cavendish leaned against the railings on the porch.  “I knew it was the right thing to do, regardless, but until this evening…”  He swallowed.  “Until this evening, I feared that I was going to have to live with the loss of both of you forever.  And perhaps… perhaps I still do.”  He turned away.  “In my high hopes, I’m afraid I was too forward.  You didn’t come in pursuit of my affection, only to warn me of what you perceived as a potentially devastating situation.  And while it wasn’t quite what it appeared, I thank you for your concern.  You have already gone above and beyond any duty you had towards me.  To ask for anything more…”  He coughed.  “To ask for anything more would be pure selfishness on my part.  And yet I still have the gall to inform you that I intend to spend tonight in this very cabin, and that should you wish to join me, you would be beyond welcome.”  He pulled out a key and unlocked the door.

Dakota made it into the room before Cavendish did.

 

 

It didn’t take long to get a fire going in the woodstove, or to drag the couch in front of it, or even to somehow find cocoa powder and marshmallows to make hot chocolate.

“The wonders of modern food preservation,” mused Cavendish as he searched the kitchenette for a kettle and two mugs.  “The goodies from my boyhood are still in date.”

“I thought your dad frowned on that stuff.”

“He did.  But he also frowned on this cabin.”  Cavendish chuckled.  “Building it on his property was my idea, not his, but Mother thought the idea was so charming that she indulged me.  It was our secret hideaway.”  Suddenly his face straightened at the bittersweet memory.

Dakota filled the kettle and set it on the stove.  “I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine!”  Cavendish shook his head.  “No really… it’s fine.  It can be our hideaway now.  Just you and me, away from my associates, away from my father, away from Hildegarde, away from any prying angel eyes… right?”

Dakota shuddered but nodded.  “I’ll do a perimeter check anyway.”

He dematerialized on the spot and rose above the cabin.  He could see the main lodge in the distance—had he and Cavendish really trekked that far?  But one thing was for certain—there were no prying angel eyes.

Nevertheless, the shadow of a single voyeur stood at the edge of the forest.

It was as oppressive a presence as ever, but this time, Dakota felt particularly emboldened.  Perhaps it was long since time to confront this entity, whatever it was.  He flew over, bracing himself for anything.  But by the time he got there, it was gone again, with no sign of its presence for miles.  Was it as afraid of Dakota as Dakota was afraid of it?  Dakota shook himself; that notion was ridiculous.

He combed the woods for nearly half an hour, but there was no trace of the shadow anywhere.  Honestly, a part of him was sort of disappointed that he had missed out on the opportunity to smite something evil, even though he had never set foot in the Bureau of War and had no clue how to actually fight.  Finally, he gave up and concluded that if he couldn’t find it, it would probably keep its distance for some time.

“All clear?” Cavendish asked hesitantly, passing Dakota a mug and the bag of marshmallows.

“All clear,” Dakota reassured him.

Cavendish visibly relaxed and ushered Dakota to join him on the sofa.  “In that case… let us proceed.”

Dakota took a big gulp before setting his mug down.  “Okay, so like… when you say ‘proceed,’ you’re talking about—?”

Cavendish laughed lightly.  “Well, there are many things I could be talking about.  You could kiss me again, for one.”

“Yeah, I sort of took that as a given.”  Dakota leaned over and planted one on Cavendish’s cheek, then on his lips, then playfully on his ear.  For some reason, that last one made Cavendish shiver excitedly, prompting more ear-kisses from Dakota.  As Cavendish’s breathing quickened, Dakota felt his own heartbeat skip—something he’d never experienced, given that all his previous hookups had been with other angels in spirit form.  He’d never felt his heart beat so strongly, nor had he felt the surge of blood throughout his body… his _entire_ body.

Cavendish grinned as Dakota pulled back.  “Yes, I suppose that _was_ a given.  But if you’re so inclined, there is much more that can be given tonight.  Whatever you’re open to.”

“I’m open to _you_ ,” Dakota taunted.

“Are you entirely sure?” Cavendish asked, suddenly concerned.  “I mean… I _know_ we’re not supposed to, Dakota, and if you feel like any part of this is wrong…”

“It’s not wrong,” Dakota said with strong conviction in his voice.  “The only part of this that’s wrong is that we’re talking instead of… instead of…”

“More of this?” Cavendish asked as he pushed Dakota backward and moved in on top of him.  A kiss on the mouth, a kiss on the chin, a kiss on the neck…

“Here ya go,” Dakota offered as he wriggled out of his shirt, allowing Cavendish to work his way farther down.  Somewhere just below the stomach, Cavendish paused suddenly and pulled away.  “What’s wrong?”

Cavendish blushed.  “It’s just… well, I’ve been wondering for quite some time, and now that I’m finally about to find out, I want to be ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“It was so long ago, you might not even remember.”  Cavendish fiddled with the buttons on his own shirt as he talked.  “You told me that angels don’t really have a biological sex, per se, but you also indicated that you can indeed make love.”

“Isn’t… isn’t that what we’re about to do?”

“By Jove, I hope so!  I… I’ve pictured it.  _Many_ times,” Cavendish confessed.  “But I never knew if I pictured it _accurately_.  What I mean is… I don’t really know what you look like.  And make no mistake, I’ll eagerly have you regardless, but…”

“But you want to know.”  Dakota laughed.  “You’re _dying_ to know, aren’t you?  And if I changed my mind right here, you’d never ever know!  I could pretend to back out, but I think you’d call my bluff,” he teased.  “So maybe I’ll just turn out the lights instead…”

“It’s… it’s all right.”  Cavendish looked slightly disappointed as he stood up.  “If you’re self-conscious…”

“Sit your ass _down_ , I was kidding!”  Dakota grabbed Cavendish’s arm and pulled him back onto the couch.  “No really, I… it really is better if we keep the light on.  It’s safer for you if I can see what I’m doing.  There’s always some risk when someone as strong as an angel… well…”

“Copulates with someone as bony as this mortal?” Cavendish noted wryly.

“Look, I’m not saying there’s a huge risk, but it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t say anything.  Yeah, we can be rough if we lose control.”

“But at this point neither of us cares.”  Cavendish’s voice carried just a slight note of impatience.

“Oh right, you were waiting for something… let’s see, what was it now?”  Dakota suddenly pinned Cavendish to the sofa and crushed his lips against the human’s face.  “Was it this?  Or… this?”  He turned Cavendish’s head to the side and bit his ear lightly, eliciting a delightful gasp from Cavendish.  “Oh right, now I remember…”

He stood up in front of the fire.  Cavendish’s eyes followed desperately as Dakota slid out of his trousers one leg at a time and flung them across the room.  Completely naked, he returned to Cavendish’s side.

“ _This_ is what we look like,” he said as Cavendish fumbled with his own pants.  “Do you approve?”

“Completely,” Cavendish breathed as Dakota helped him finish disrobing as well.

And so it began—a completely new kind of symphony, and true to Cavendish’s style, it ignited all sorts of things that had nothing whatsoever to do with the music.  Despite all the sensation Dakota could feel—in his lips, in his gut, in his… toes?  For some reason?—it was as if everything else, from the snow outside to the fire in the woodstove to Cavendish’s own moans of pleasure, had been amplified a thousand times over.  How had the angel ever found a physical body restrictive by any measure?  What he sensed now was _feeling_ , it was _life_ , it was _love_ , and it was everything the angels in heaven could never hope to understand.

Dakota trembled with delight as he realized that here, with Cavendish, he had discovered a place that was better than heaven.

 

 

There was a bed where they flopped down, simultaneously defeated and triumphant when it was all said and done.

Dakota’s mind replayed the night’s events and revelations over and over in rapid succession.

Cavendish wasn’t going to marry Hildegarde—not in his heart, anyway.  Cavendish didn’t even love Hildegarde, despite heaven’s best efforts to force him.  Cavendish _did_ love Dakota.  He’d loved Dakota for a while—he’d dreamed of _making_ love to Dakota for a while!  And tonight, just when Dakota had feared Cavendish’s anger or coldness, Cavendish had been nothing but ecstatic to see his angel returned.

Also, they’d had sex.

In a single night, eons of indoctrination had gone from ironclad constants to silly superstitions.  Whatever wrongness, whatever _disgust_ Dakota should have felt, it simply didn’t exist.  All those rules were light-years away, in some alternate dimension that couldn’t touch this cabin, a sanctuary of freedom for Dakota and Cavendish.  Here their love was more than allowed—it was everything that existed.

“Well?  How did you like that?” came a whisper from Cavendish’s half of the bed.

Dakota had assumed Cavendish was asleep already, but upon hearing his voice, the angel snuggled up to the human and replied, “That was the best thing that ever happened in my life.”


	7. Busted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so originally this was going to be part of the chapter I'm still working on, but I decided that the contents of the chapter really needed to be broken into two parts. So this one's short, but hopefully the next one will be up before too long. Thanks for being patient!

When the first blue rays of winter morning peeped through the windows, Dakota realized that the room had grown chilly as the fire had died out.  Obviously, cold didn’t really bother angels, but he didn’t want Cavendish, who was still naked after last night’s endeavors, to wake up with frostbite.  For some reason he forgot that he himself was naked as he went to pull more wood from the pile outside, and he didn’t remember until he reentered the cabin to find Cavendish sitting up, glasses on, guffawing at the appearance of a nude angel with an armload of wood.

“I am at this moment _very_ grateful that we opted not to spend last night at the main lodge,” Cavendish gasped as soon as he had the breath to talk again.

“Well the _main_ lodge probably has central heating and doesn’t need firewood to keep it habitable,” Dakota said with teasingly exaggerated crossness as he loaded the woodstove.  Then, more seriously, he inquired, “Are they gonna miss us if we don’t head back soon?”

Cavendish shook his head.  “The party has adjourned; they merely spent the night as a matter of convenience.  I imagine the lot will be cleared out by noon or so.  At which point we could head back, or else we can stay here… I don’t know if you have any other obligations for today, but…”

“But you want me to stay with you for as long as I can.”  Dakota arranged some twigs and pine needles in the center of the stove and lit a match.

Cavendish smiled tenderly.  “I’ll be here for as long as you’ll have me,” he declared.

“See, that could be a problem.”  Dakota climbed back onto the bed.  “I’ll have you for way longer than your mortal body can withstand.  Sooner or later, you’re gonna run out of food and starve.”

“Then we’ll simply have to pick up where we left off in the afterlife.”  Although Cavendish had meant his words as a joke, there was something unpleasant about the reminder of heaven, and jobs, and rules, and disapproving angels.  Dakota’s face must have fallen visibly, because the human quickly assured him, “There’s plenty of food back at the lodge, and at least a few days before I have to return to work.  We’ll make the most of our time, and after that we can figure out the rest of my life, I suppose.”

“A few days... and then the rest of your life.”  Dakota bent down and kissed the human tenderly.  “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

 

 

They did go back to the empty lodge, where they ate brunch as they listened to recordings of Cavendish’s music.  It certainly wasn’t the same as listening to Cavendish play live, but from the way Cavendish beamed proudly when Dakota started humming along, Dakota wondered if Cavendish preferred this chance to relax over playing it himself.  At any rate, it was much more practical to play the recordings than to try to fit a whole piano in the lodge’s sauna, which they visited shortly thereafter.

“Hey, it’s that one you played at your audition,” Dakota noted.  “The one you were working on when I dropped by for a piano lesson…”

“I call it ‘Hurricane Season’,” Cavendish replied as he leaned back against the stone wall.  “Not very applicable for this time of year, I suppose.”

“Aw, what the hell, if you can wear a robe in the sauna, I think you can play a song about a hurricane in December.”  Dakota wriggled his eyebrows.

Cavendish loosened the front of his garment.  “Is this better?” he asked as he exposed his chest, which glistened with light beads of sweat.

“Maybe.  Wouldn’t mind a better look at your abs, though.”

Cavendish slid entirely out of the top of his robe but kept the belt tied around his waist.  “Your wish is my command.”  He inched closer to Dakota and kissed him.

“What if I wished to turn it up even hotter?” Dakota asked, gesturing to the stove.

“I’d happily oblige, but I’d be puzzled given your immortal physiology.  Does the steam even have any effect on you?”

“Kind of.  It makes you look hotter, literally and figuratively, and _that_ has a pretty big effect on me!”  Dakota drew Cavendish closer and kissed his chest, feeling Cavendish’s skin grow even warmer beneath his lips.

Cavendish grinned.  “It would appear that angels have vulnerabilities I never would have suspected.”  He rested a hand on Dakota’s head and teased his hair between his fingers.  Then he sighed, suddenly serious.  “Do you ever get lonely?”

“Huh?”  Dakota was perplexed at the non sequiter.

“You have vulnerabilities.  Maybe not to heat or cold, but you can bleed, and eat, and feel desire… and act upon said desire.  Are you ever lonely?”

Dakota thought he would say no—after all, he did have friends, both human and angel, back in heaven, whom he loved a lot.

But that wasn’t what Cavendish meant, and Dakota knew it.

“I was lonely after I left,” he confessed.  “I wanted to come back, so bad.  But the last twenty-four hours more than make up for it.  Except… now I’m kicking myself.  We could’ve had this sooner.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing.”

“No… not really.  I don’t think heaven’s why I stayed away.  I guess I was just scared.  Not of the angels, but of what it might feel like if you said no.”

“Another way in which an angel can be vulnerable,” Cavendish mused.  “Meanwhile, I was so terrified that you weren’t coming back that I had just made a sort of melancholy peace with it.  I thought I was going to end up a lonely man after Hilda and I terminated our marriage.  I accepted it, but I didn’t look forward to it.  You could not have arrived at a more opportune time.  Now I dread nothing.”

Dakota pulled back so he could look Cavendish straight in the eye.  “You wanna know what’s stupid, though?  I’m _still_ scared.  For you, though, not for me.”

“That I’ll leave?  Now?  Because you needn’t fear that at all.”

“I’m scared of… of dragging you into all this.  Into loving someone immortal, like me.  Angels don’t work in human timeframes.  We don’t get married, for one, because there’s no such thing as ‘till death do us part’.  And even if we did, I’m not exactly someone you could bring home for the holidays.  Are you okay with someone who has to stay hidden?”

“Frankly, whether you wanted to ‘drag me into all this’ or not, that ship has sailed.  I’m already in love with you.  And holidays are overrated.  We can celebrate on our own, just you and me.”  Cavendish cupped Dakota’s cheek.  “As for marriage… well, I feel as though we’re already on a honeymoon.”  He gestured all around him at the sauna before scooping Dakota into his arms, bridal-style, and carrying him just outside onto a snow-covered porch.

He set Dakota down in a soft drift.

“That’s not… uncomfortable, is it?” Cavendish asked suddenly.  “I mean the abrupt switch from hot to cold.  I know it’s not harmful, but is it acceptable?”

“Very,” Dakota assured him.

Cavendish squeezed Dakota’s jaw, coaxing him to open wide as Cavendish’s tongue swept the inside of Dakota’s mouth.  Cavendish tasted sweet and rich, like chocolate chips and butter and maple syrup from the pancakes he’d had an hour ago.  Dakota’s hands wandered onto Cavendish’s robe and untied the belt, letting the robe hang wide open.

“Enjoying the view?” Cavendish asked as Dakota’s gaze lingered on Cavendish’s exposure.

“As long as you don’t get too cold.”

“In fifteen minutes I’ll likely be begging to go back into the sauna.  But please, Dakota, for now I’m burning up!”  And with that, Cavendish straddled Dakota and dove back into his face, desperately lapping up every kiss Dakota had to offer.

“Just be sure to tell me if you think you’re _literally_ burning up,” Dakota warned when Cavendish drew back for air.  “As much as I don’t wanna stop, I’d rather quit than smite you by accident… barely.”

“I’m already smitten.”  Cavendish was about to go in for another round of osculation, but Dakota reached out and grabbed the human by the hips instead.  He squeezed, then began making little circular motions with his thumbs, then larger circles, then closer circles…

“Ooooohhh,” Cavendish breathed as Dakota crossed some imaginary boundary in his pelvic region.  Cavendish responded by biting Dakota’s neck, and pushing him farther into the snow.

So much cold below him, so much heat above.  Dakota did his best to suppress a moan, at which Cavendish laughed heartily.

“You need only stay hidden in public, my love,” Cavendish assured him.  “By now there isn’t a single other human in a fifteen-mile radius of here.  Be as loud and immodest as you like.”

Dakota obliged as Cavendish sank into him.

 

 

“I’m never going back to heaven,” Dakota declared late that evening.  They were sprawled on the enormous bearskin rug in front of the blazing fireplace in the main hall, the same room that had last night hosted a horde of boisterous partygoers, now quiet and serene.  The remains of their dinner sat on plates that were now shoved aside, and they were sharing a mug of leftover ale.

“Not ever?” Cavendish asked.

“Not as long as you live,” Dakota promised.   “I may not be able to grow old with you, but I can stay by your side as you grow old.  After you and Hildegarde finish up with your… arrangement… we could get a house together, and I could go on tour with you, and if you decide you want kids we can adopt some, and if you don’t that’s okay too, and every winter we can come back to this lodge, and…”

“So what you’re saying is, you want to live a dull human life?”  Cavendish stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Dakota squeezed a fistful of fur from the rug.  “Now that you put it that way… I guess I do.  I want a thousand more days like the one we just had.”

Cavendish reached over and squeezed his hand.  “To the extent that we can, we shall make that happen.  But the day isn’t over yet.”  He rolled over and whispered in Dakota’s ear, “Will you take me before we go to bed?”

“Of course.”

This time, it wasn’t the passionate frenzy they’d had on the porch, or the sweet awkwardness they’d had back at the cabin.  Things were calmer, more leisurely, yet more sincere than ever.  Years of pining had culminated in this moment of ecstasy, and in the flickering firelight, Dakota could read on Cavendish’s face that the human must have desired this for at least as long as the angel.

There were kisses, soft kisses.

There were hands, gentle hands.

And then the door swung wide open.

 

 

“Well, well, well!” Block’s voice thundered throughout the hall.  “I should’ve known from the start.”

He was flanked by the other angels from the Tribunal, a handful of angels who sported uniforms from the Bureau of Law, and none other than Brick and Savannah.  Brick’s nose was scrunched in disgust; Savannah’s eyes were wide with terror.

“Well don’t just stand there!  Seize him!” Block commanded as two Law angels forcibly pried Dakota off of Cavendish, whom a third angel had to restrain from reaching out desperately for Dakota’s hand.

“Now see here!” Cavendish yelped, which only made Block laugh cruelly.

“Save it, human!  You’re lucky to be alive!” Brick taunted.  “Really, Dakota, I knew you were the lowest of the low, but I didn’t know you were the _lowest_ of the lowest of the low!”

“Enough!” Savannah snapped.  “Do we really have to do all this in front of the human?  I told you all, there was no need for him to know we were here in the first place.”

“How long _have_ you been there?” Cavendish asked uneasily, his face turning green.

“We literally walked in on you two in the act!” said the llama-headed angel from the Tribunal.  “Frankly, I don’t think it matters what else we saw.”

“Dakota!  Say something!  Don’t let them just drag you away like this!”

“What am I supposed to say?” Dakota asked hollowly, choking back tears.  “It’s like he said… they caught us in the act.”  Dakota’s mind spun in wild speculation—one part of him was trying to determine what had drawn the angels to the remote lodge, another part of him was trying to discern whether they’d been watching for a while or whether they had just barged in, but most of him was just stricken with grief.

No longer would he be a guardian.  Ten thousand years of schooling, down the drain in a single night.  But worse than that was the fact that he would be permanently barred from earth, and even when Cavendish died for real, heaven would be sure to keep him far, far away from the angel who might be tempted by him.

Dakota hoped that that separation was _all_ that would happen to Cavendish.

The Tribunal angel with the floating circles for a head beeped harshly.

“Sounds right to me,” said Block.  “No need for a trial when we all know what happened.”  He grinned evilly in Dakota’s face.  “No need for a trial when we all know what’s _going_ to happen,” he added.

Dakota swallowed.  He didn’t actually know what was going to happen.  But he wasn’t about to ask in front of Cavendish.

“What’s going to happen to Dakota?  Someone, please explain!” Cavendish begged.

“We don’t have to explain jack to you.  What we should really do is wipe your memory, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry,” Brick sneered.

“Dakota, no!  You can’t let them do this!  Dakota!”

“Cavendish… I’m sorry.”  Dakota closed his eyes.  He couldn’t bear to watch Cavendish’s face as he was carried away forever.


	8. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel falls.

The next thing he knew, Dakota was waiting in a cold, white, sterile chamber in the Bureau of Law.

Something felt off about the room—it had walls, but they seemed infinitely far away.  Yet that was impossible, because the entire building fit comfortably within a city block.  Also, where was the door?

He turned around to ask Block, but he and the other angels who had arrested Dakota were already gone, save for the llama-headed one.

“As we said, there is no need for a trial.  However, I do need to inquire as to one thing—was your deviation an isolated incident, or did you corrupt—or were you corrupted by—any fellow heavenly beings in this liaison?”

“You’re asking me to rat out other angels?”

“ _Answer the question!_ ”  The llama-headed angel’s nostrils flared as he took a step closer to Dakota.

“No!  No, there weren’t any other angels involved here!  Just me!”  Dakota said quickly.  “What, would I get a lighter sentence if there were?”

The other angel snorted.  “Hardly.  The last thing we need is a second Terrestrial Incursion.  With the humans already destroying their own planet by themselves…”  He shook his head.  “They hardly need the wrath of heaven compounding their troubles.”

“You mean the wrath that _heaven controls_?” Dakota demanded.

“There are perversions we cannot allow if we expect order to remain in the universe!  Humans may act recklessly in their weakness, but angels need to maintain standards of conduct, and we certainly don’t need to throw new nephilim into the mix!”

“Who said anything about nephilim?  That’s like a one-in-hundreds-of-millions chance!”

“And there are hundreds of _trillions_ of angels!” the llama-head snapped back.  “If we made allowances for everyone who thought they were special enough to bend the rules, there would soon be more abominations than humans overrunning the world!”

“That’s a pretty rich theory, considering so far there have been a grand total of _zero_ human-based nephilim!”  Dakota shook his head.  “The last Incursion seems to have been pretty overblown, if you ask me.”

“Overblown or not, which it is not, we still must uphold the integrity of the Bureau of Prophecy’s predictions!”  The llama-head pulled out an enormous tapestry from seemingly nowhere and unfurled it.  Somehow, even though the identities of billions and billions and billions of humans were encompassed on the family tree, each person stood out as identifiable and easy to find, and each was clearly paired with a partner in a lineage that spanned all of human history, from when the first hominids invented language millions of years ago, to a generation of barely-humanoid aliens that would exist millions of years in the future.  Sure enough, Cavendish was paired with Hildegarde smack-dab in the middle, and their union was slated to produce many generations of descendants.

At the very bottom of the banner was a line of unintelligible characters, embroidered into the fabric as inextricably as any of the faces sewn on above.  Underneath it, someone had written a translation of the words in red ink: “This order concerning the proliferation of the Passive Human Race is inerrant and immutable, and must be permitted to perpetuate until the end of time.”

“So… if it’s really immutable, why do we have to even bother enforcing it?  Why can’t we just let things play out if they’re going to happen anyway?”

The llama-head covered his face with his hoof.  “You’re not even sorry… are you?”

“You know what?  I’m _not_.  I.  Did.  Nothing.  Wrong!” Dakota insisted.

“In that case, _I’m_ sorry… that we must do what we must do.”

Dakota heard beeping behind him, but he didn’t register what the sound meant until he felt the knife.

One clean slice across his right shoulder.  One clean slice across his left shoulder.

And just like that, he would never fly again.

 

 

Dakota woke up cold, shaking, and somehow nauseated as the traumatic memory played over and over in his head.  He felt his shoulders, desperately wishing it had all been some terrible nightmare, but knowing even before his hands found the cauterized scars that it was all really gone.

It had been over two months, and he still didn’t dare go outside.  He shuddered at the thought of anyone—angel, human, or other—noticing the stumps of his former wings.  Worse, if anyone asked what he did to warrant such drastic punishment, he’d have to reveal what he had done.  Then again, maybe the neighborhood already knew.  Maybe word had gotten around.  Just because angels couldn’t lie didn’t mean they couldn’t spread nasty rumors.  What could they be saying about him?

It sickened him to feel such shame over a love he knew was righteous.

But whether or not the shame was warranted, it paralyzed him badly enough that he almost didn’t answer when someone knocked, especially when he realized who it was.  Yet a certain anger bubbled to the surface and drove him to throw the door wide open in his fury.

“I can’t _believe_ you would show your face here,” he growled at Savannah as he yanked her inside.

Savannah’s eyebrows narrowed.  “I can’t believe I had to clean up all your shit because you never came back to the office,” she said coldly as she thrust a box into his arms.  “I should’ve just thrown everything away.”

“Yeah well, serves you right for leading Block to Cavendish and me!”

“For the _last time_ , I haven’t told Block anything since the Christmas incident.”  Her expression softened as she sat down on Dakota’s couch.  “You have to believe me.  I don’t know how he knew about this either.”

“Like you care.”

“I do care!  Why do you think I went along?  I didn’t want Block to get… out of hand.  Especially not with Brick around.  _He_ just wanted to see you look bad.”  Savannah closed her eyes.  “Besides, I needed to finally do right by you.  Kindness would have been telling on you back when all it would have cost you was your job.  I joined Block’s mission because I had to be sure that however bad it was, it wasn’t going to get worse.”

“Worse?”  Dakota dropped the box of trivial office junk.  “They literally _cut my wings off_ , and you think somehow, possibly, it could’ve been _worse_?”

“I don’t think, I _know_!”  Savannah raised her voice, but Dakota didn’t back away.

“Yeah, that’s awfully rich coming from someone who still has both wings!”

“If you think that’s the worst thing that could’ve happened, then you’re one of the lucky ones!”  Savannah stood up and looked him in the eye.  “I know from experience.”

“Again, two wings.”

“Would you stop feeling sorry for yourself for thirty seconds and listen to me?  I just said I know the Bureau of Law can dole out worse punishment _from experience_.”  Savannah sighed.  “Look.  I know you’re going to have trouble believing this, but I was there, at the Terrestrial Incursion.”

“Wait, what?” Dakota asked in spite of himself.  “Oh, you mean you tattled on some _other_ angels—”

“I participated, all right?” Savannah said through gritted teeth, clearly not thrilled at having to disclose this detail of her sex life.  “There was a human, named Seth.  We were in love.”  She folded her arms across her chest.

“But… how?  They would’ve fired you on the spot.”

“At the time, there were too many of us to fire us all.  The Bureau of Guardianship wouldn’t have been able to afford losing that many angels at once.  That’s why the whole thing is so hush-hush at the Bureau—they don’t want newer angels to see those of us who deviated getting promoted and think it’s not a big deal if they do the same thing.  They made an example of the more high-profile offenders, but they found more creative ways to deal with the rest of us.”

“Hang on, back up.”  Dakota sat down.  “I’m really confused now.  So you’re saying that back at the Bureau, there are thousands of angels who’ve banged humans—”

“Millions, actually.  Tens of millions.”

“Tens of millions.  And everyone’s just moseying around like it never happened?”

“We do our best to maintain a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy.”  Savannah put her legs up on Dakota’s coffee table, not that Dakota cared about that sort of thing.

“So does Block know about you and Seth?” Dakota asked before he could stop himself.

“Know?”  Savannah laughed hollowly.  “Block was there too!  I mean, I don’t know if he personally… did anything… but trust me, he was out there, _protecting_ us, for years!  There were a couple times Seth and I thought we were done for, but Block helped us cover our tracks.  He was different then.  He wasn’t even with the Bureau of Guardianship yet.  Then one day, they took him away, and when he finally came back… he’d changed.  I don’t know how to explain it.”  Savannah exhaled.  “The Block I knew back then never would’ve dragged you out like this.  And he certainly wouldn’t have advocated for the kinds of punishments we got.”

Dakota frowned.  “You keep dancing around this ‘punishment’ that they gave you, that was somehow worse than losing your wings.  What the hell did they do to you?”

“Nothing… to _me_.”  Tears welled up in Savannah’s eyes.  “But trust me… I would trade my job, my wings, my halo, _everything_ in a blink if... if it could undo…”  Savannah’s hand flew to her face and covered her mouth, as though she were gagging.  “If it could undo the thing they did.  I… I can’t tell you what.”  She swallowed.  “They made me promise not to tell anyone.”

“Not to tell anyone what?”

“Oh, for crying… you’re a moron, you know that?  I just told you I literally can’t tell you what.”

“You can’t even drop a few hints?”

“You know what?  I don’t want to drop a few hints,” Savannah said suddenly.  “I don’t know why I even bothered coming to talk to you in the first place.  You’re wallowing so deep in self-pity that you wouldn’t understand even if I could tell you.”  She shook her head.  “You really are that selfish.”

“Selfish?  _I’m_ selfish?  I just gave up everything I had for one human… a human I love!   As much as you loved Seth, I’ll bet.”

“Then prove you love him,” Savannah said as she stood up to go.

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Dakota asked as Savannah crossed the threshold.

“You could start by caring about where he is,” she said cryptically.

She let the door slam behind her.

 

 

Of course Dakota cared where Cavendish was, but how the hell was he supposed to find that out?

The human was probably still on earth.  He was still young, after all, and heaven really wasn’t in the business of punishing humans—that was hell’s turf.  By now he’d probably married Hildegarde; they may or may not have dissolved their union.  And surely Cavendish was still touring and teaching—his music had meant the world to him, right?

His _music_.

Just now, Dakota realized that he hadn’t heard Cavendish’s late-night practices, not even once, since he’d returned to heaven.  Furthermore, he hadn’t felt any sudden bouts of fear or panic or grief… that was good, right?  That meant Cavendish wasn’t suffering.

Even in his worst episodes of denial, Dakota knew that wasn’t why.

Dakota went for a walk that afternoon, head down so as not to see everyone staring at him, at least until he got out of his neighborhood.  He meandered over to Cat Heaven, figuring he could count on the felines to more or less leave him alone as he sat down and leaned against a sequoia-sized scratching post, but as luck would have it, a cat that looked inexplicably like Cavendish came right up to him and curled up in his lap.  He would have left right then and there, but even in heaven, one did not disturb a sleeping kitty.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the sky, fixating on the portal.  The portal he’d taken for granted all these years, the one whose insurmountable distance off the ground had never once posed an obstacle.  If he could get up there, somehow, would it still take him back to earth, to Cavendish?  On the one hand, it would seem that if that were the case, humans would have found their way up many years ago so as to visit friends and family who were still alive.  On the other hand, maybe simply being an angel was what made all the difference.  Wings or no wings, he was still a creature of heaven.

And guardian or no guardian, he was still determined to protect Cavendish.

 

 

“Absolutely not,” Amanda objected when Dakota made his request.  “It would be dangerous for you.  If you fell, I might not be able to pick you up before you got hurt.”  Her voice was firm, but there was unmistakable pity, perhaps even guilt, in her eyes.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take!”

“But it’s not a risk _I_ am willing to take!  Besides… after everything you’ve been through, after everything that _he’s_ been through, do you even want to think about what will happen if you get caught a second time?”

“I won’t get caught a second time because there won’t _be_ a second time,” Dakota promised.  “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“And you said there wasn’t going to be a first time.  We both know you will only be able to hold out for so long.”

“So you’re not gonna help me.”

“I am helping you.  Don’t try to go back to earth.  It is unpleasant, but it is better this way… just trust me, please!”  Amanda tried to put a hand on Dakota’s shoulder, but he backed away.

“Then I’ll find someone who will,” Dakota insisted as he stormed out.

 

 

Finding someone else who would turned out to be far easier said than done.

Dakota thought about asking Veronica, Mort, or even Buford if one of them could be so kind as to carry him to the portal, but he just couldn’t bring himself to let them see him in his wingless state, to say nothing of letting on that he had slept with a mortal, or daring to ask for aid in seeing that mortal again.  If even Amanda somehow didn’t understand, what hope was there of any of the others being any help?  Yet if what Savannah had said was true—that there were millions and millions of angels who had loved humans in the Bureau of Guardianship alone—then surely somewhere among them, there had to be somebody who would be willing to offer such simple assistance.  A ten minute flight to the portal.  That was all Dakota needed.  But how could he possibly know who was safe to ask?

Perhaps he could figure it out as he went.

The trip to the Bureau was terrifying and agonizing.  He covered his stumps with a trench coat in the hopes that he could pass as a random human wandering around, but disguising the halo would not be nearly so simple.  He stuck to better-lit areas so his own light would hopefully be too washed-out to notice, but these areas were more public, and the odds of meeting someone he knew were higher.  With every step, the coat rubbed against the wounds on his back, and it was all he could do not to grimace in pain.  Also, walking was just so darn _slow_.  The trains the mortals used to get around didn’t go anywhere near Crystal Cosmopolis, the massive complex that housed the Bureau of Guardianship, because why would they need to go there?  The Bureaus were for angels, with angelic jobs, not humans, and not pariahs with amputated wings.

He missed flying.

After nearly a day’s walk, he had finally reached the grand steps of the Bureau, where he sat down and caught his breath while he plotted his next move.

Was there some way he could sneak into the archives and dig up records of employees’ infractions?  Or would he have more luck with that if he ventured into the Bureau of Law?  He shuddered; given his last encounter with Law, he was not particularly keen on going back.

Could he find guardians who had been with the Bureau for at least ten thousand years, corner them, and ask them individually if they had ever slept with a human?  It was an audacious thing to ask, particularly given that word of Dakota’s crime had undoubtedly reached everyone at the Bureau by now, but it would be efficient.  Nobody who had done so could deny it.  But even if he found other angels who had committed the taboo, was squeezing the information out of them likely to get him on their good side enough to indulge him?

What about Savannah?  She didn’t like him at all, but at least she would understand why he wanted to hitch a ride to the portal.  Hell, maybe she’d be happy for the opportunity to throw him out of heaven.  Besides, she had noted with disgust the fact that Dakota knew nothing of Cavendish’s whereabouts; perhaps he could turn those words against her and convince her that this was the only way he could find out.  Maybe even if she wouldn’t escort him, she would at least let on the names of guardians who would.

Dakota hated to admit it, but this was probably his best option.

He was barely ten feet inside when Brick appeared and blocked his path.

“So the biosexual comes crawling back to the Bureau.  They’re not giving you your job back,” he jeered.

“That’s not what I’m here for.  I need to talk to Savannah.”

“Savannah?  Are you serious?”  Brick grinned smugly.  “Why the hell would Savannah want to talk to _you_?”

“That’s none of your business, just let me go!”

“No can do!” Brick said in a practically sing-song voice.  “You’re not allowed in here.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.  I don’t want you here, so I’m ordering you to leave.”

“I don’t have time for this!”

“Oh really?  Is that because you got another job already, or because you found another mortal to fornicate with?”

Dakota shoved Brick out of the way, applying just a little more force than necessary.  In response, Brick grabbed Dakota by the arm and slammed him against the floor, somehow managing to land him on exactly the wrong spot so that excruciating pain radiated from his shoulders and resonated throughout his whole body.  Dakota rolled over and punched Brick in the face.  Brick grabbed Dakota in a headlock, and of course that was the moment the Tribunal walked by.

“This guy thought he could just waltz in here like a normal person who never humped a mortal!”

“That’s quite enough.  Would you kindly exit the premises, Dakota?” the llama-head asked.

“I’ve got business here.  I wish to speak with a former colleague.”

“Do we have to call security?” Block asked.  “Never mind, I already did.  He should be here in three… two… one!”

Before Dakota could even ask why a heavenly Bureau would need security, the agent appeared in the entry hall.

“ _Draco_?” Dakota asked in disbelief.  “I thought you were a psychopomp!”

“Psychopomps are with the Bureau of Transportation.  I was recently reassigned,” Draco explained.  “I’m still an escort, I’m just here to escort you out of Crystal Cosmopolis instead of escorting the dead to the afterlife.  Follow me.”  With that, Draco snapped his fingers, and a huge purple tunnel opened in front of them.  Draco stepped inside and gestured for Dakota to follow.

To his own surprise, Dakota obeyed.

 

 

“Where are you taking me?”

“My orders were to exile you, so I’m taking you somewhere very far from here.  But it’s not what you think,” Draco began as the entrance to the corridor closed behind them.  “It’s true that I am supposed to be banishing you.  But it is also true that I don’t believe you deserve to be banished.”

“You… you don’t?” Dakota asked.

“I cannot blame you for loving a human.  You were infatuated with his beauty, were you not?” Draco asked calmly.

“I… I was.  But it ran deeper than that!  He was—”

“You don’t have to tell me.  The infatuation with a beautiful human is enough for me to relate to.”  Draco sighed.  “I requested reassignment because I saw a beautiful human myself.  And for some reason I just couldn’t get her out of my mind.  I wasn’t sure yet if I would be dispatched to escort her when the time came, but I found myself hoping for it, badly.  Wanting a human to die is obviously wrong, so I removed myself from the situation entirely.  Now I can only hope she’s doing well, wherever she is.”

“So… so you don’t think what I did was wrong?”  Did Dakota dare get his hopes too high?

“Not at all.  But I cannot help you in the way you desire.  I cannot escort you back to earth.”  Draco quickened his pace.

“How did you know that’s what I wanted?”

“I may have overheard your conversation with the manager of the Cronus Donut,” Draco confessed.  “Now that I am obligated to remove people who are causing others distress, I can sense that sort of tension when I am nearby.  I was waiting outside in the event I was summoned.  No offense!”

“Nah, I get it.  But what makes you so sure you can’t do it?”

“Every angel at the Bureau of Transportation knows how the portal works.  And you see, delivering someone else to the threshold is impossible.”

“Why?”

“It was intentionally designed in that manner.  The fear was that a mortal might convince an angel to deliver them back to earth, then get stranded and wander as a ghost.  So the portal emits a sort of… ‘splitting’ force.  The closer you get to it, the more you find yourself drifting apart from anyone else who might be nearby.  It causes one person’s essence to repel another’s.  You may have noticed that there is never a line when you reach the threshold, even though many billions of angels are likely to be using it at any given time.  That is because space itself stretches at the portal to accommodate every traveler.  By the time we were anywhere close, you would be pried from my arms no matter how strongly I held you.”  Draco shook his head.  “I am sorry.”

“Well… at least someone _wants_ to help me.  That’s worth… something.”

“I like to think that it is.  But you would likely be more interested in someone who possibly can.”

Just then, Dakota noticed that the other end of the corridor was opening.  On the other side, he saw some sort of junkyard—random pipes, wires, and broken machinery were scattered straight to the horizon’s edge.  But it didn’t look desolate, like an unwanted trash heap.  It seemed to hum with a sort of promise, like an orchard of freshly planted saplings.

Also, it wasn’t uninhabited.  The moment Dakota and Draco stepped out of the tunnel, two angels approached them.  They were humanoid, but strangely proportioned, like figures in what the humans referred to as “abstract art.”  One had a triangular head that made it hard to draw the line between his nose and the rest of his face; the other was almost completely cylindrical, as though someone had put clothes on a fire hydrant.  Yet it was not their bodies that stood out as unusual, but rather their wings—the wings had no feathers, and were made of some kind of metal.  The contraptions had gears sticking out at odd angles, but they were clearly fully functional, as evidenced by the graceful ease with which the pair flew towards Dakota and Draco.

“Dakota, I would like you to meet Phineas and Ferb.”

 

 

It didn’t take long for Phineas and Ferb to surmise exactly what had happened, or to set about helping Dakota.  No sooner had Draco left than they guided him to some sort of workshop, where they started taking all sorts of measurements and scribbling down gibberish.

“You’ll be needing more lift in your prosthetics because you’re bigger than we are, but based on your halo’s chemical composition, you probably won’t need to worry about oiling them,” Phineas assessed as Ferb mounted a blueprint on a nearby easel.  “Interfacing shouldn’t be hard, because those look like pretty clean cuts, but it might still take you a while to get used to them.”  Phineas paused, then encircled Dakota’s head with the measuring tape for the third time, as though determined to make sure the numbers were perfectly accurate.  “After we finish, maybe in a week or two, you can practice here until you’re ready to go back to the city.”

Dakota ducked out from under his measuring-tape crown and took a step backward.  “Look… I really, really appreciate this.  It’s very nice of you.  But I gotta ask… why?”

“Um… because we’re angels and we like to help people feel better?”  Phineas shrugged.  “You need new wings, we can make you new wings.  It’s the right thing to do.”

“Tell that to the guys who cut off my old ones,” Dakota sighed.  “They’re angels too.”

“Yeah… funny how that works.”  Phineas punched some figures into a calculator.  “You wouldn’t think perfect beings would ever disagree on anything.  But the Bureau of Law can be real sticklers.”

“Hey so about those guys…”  Dakota tapped Ferb’s left wing so that the metal frame made a reverberating sound like a cymbal that had been struck.  “What’d they do to you?  Or... why did they do it?” he amended.

“Pretty standard stuff, I got caught sending love letters to a mortal woman and they didn’t like it.  There’s more of us ‘biosexuals’ than you’d think.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see them all come out of the woodwork.  Until I met Cavendish, I thought this friend of mine was the only one.”

“Nah, not at all.”  Phineas rolled back his measuring tape.

“So were you at the Terrestrial Incursion?”  Dakota dusted sawdust off his tracksuit.  “Were you with the Bureau of Guardianship?”

“Nope, never been a guardian, and I was still a fledgling during the Incursion.  I had just graduated from the Bureau of Nurture when I decided I wanted to see earth’s technology for myself.  Humans are amazing builders, you know that?  That’s when I met Isabella at this engineering school.  She got some kind of special scholarship for being in the Fireside Girls when she was a kid and earning a million merit badges.  You gotta respect that kind of commitment.  So we hit it off, and I was just kind of going to stay on earth till it was time for her to go to heaven.  I didn’t have a career yet or anything.”

“Wait, so you’re just over three million years old?”  That was when fledglings came of age and gained the ability to fly.  “Aren’t you a little young to lose your wings?”

“Why yes, yes I am,” Phineas said matter-of-factly.

So there was no lenience, even for someone who was practically still a child.  “I’m… I’m really sorry.  You barely got to know what flying even felt like.”

“At least until Ferb and I invented these bad boys,” Phineas reminded him, spreading his synthetic wings proudly.  “Thanks to these, Isabella and I get to see plenty of each other, at least when things aren’t busy at her agricultural supply store.  I even tried making her her own set of wings once, but I couldn’t get it to be compatible with her human essence, so I made her a jetpack instead.  It doesn’t get her as high into the air, but it gets her here fast, that’s for sure.”

“And you’re not worried about getting caught?”

“They tend not to bother us out here in the sticks.”  Phineas gestured to a pair of rooms off to the side of the workshop.  “I’m sure they’ll leave you alone if you stay with Ferb and me for a while.  When it all blows over, nobody’s gonna remember whatever you did.  They forgot all about Isabella and me, and about Ferb and Vanessa.”

“I’m guessing Vanessa is the human that Ferb…?”

Both of the angelic engineers chuckled a bit.  “Not exactly a human,” Phineas corrected, “or any other mortal, strictly speaking.  Ferb had a fling with a cambion.”

“A what?”

“A cambion,” Ferb repeated.  “Fifty percent human, fifty percent _demon_ , one hundred percent intoxicating.”  He grinned as he reminisced.  “We both knew it couldn’t last.”

“And he still lost his wings over it?”

Phineas slipped his hands into a pair of well-worn work gloves.  “Well, yeah.  She was half-demon.  It makes more sense than clipping someone over a human… no offense, bro.”

Ferb shook his head and donned a welder’s mask.

“Ferb’s right,” Phineas concurred.  “Now that we know what we’re building, it’s time we got to work.”

 

 

After about ten days of Phineas and Ferb painstakingly working and reworking the metal, and of Dakota left with little to do except fetch whatever tools they needed, try on pieces as they worked, and pace the room in anticipation—finally, finally the finished product was ready for testing.

It worked beautifully—for about two minutes.

Dakota rubbed his nose after falling on his face.  Phineas ran up to his side.

“Gee, sorry about that!”

“Nah, I think it’s my fault.”  Dakota stood up and tried again.  This flight lasted for four minutes.

“It’s a lot easier to turn with these than it is using your natural wings,” Phineas explained.  “Once you get used to it it’s more convenient, but before that it can be disorienting.”

Dakota nodded and took off again.  And again.  And again, and again, and again.

By the end of the day, if it had been possible to get bruised in heaven, Dakota would have been black and purple over every inch of his body.  His best flight time was seven minutes.

“It takes time!” Phineas encouraged as Dakota flopped down, exhausted, in the bed next to Ferb’s.  “If you want, I can probably whip you up a jetpack like Isabella’s that you can use till you’re ready to use your wings.”

Dakota shook his head.  “You said the jetpack doesn’t get too far off the ground,” he reminded Phineas as Ferb brought in three meatball subs for their dinner.

“No, but it’s better than nothing.”

“If I can’t reach the portal, what’s the point of any of this?”

At this, Phineas and Ferb exchanged nervous glances.  “Is that… is that what you want the wings for?” asked Phineas.

“Yeah… I thought Draco told you that, or you’d figured it out.”  Dakota sat up and took a sub.  “Somehow I’ve got to get back to Cavendish.”

“Well see… there’s a problem,” said Phineas.  “The portal emits a ton of energy.”

“Yeah, Draco was telling me about that.  Some kind of splitting force to keep people apart?”

“That’s something different.  I’m talking about massive heat radiation.  Angels don’t notice it because our essence acts as a very effective shield for ourselves and small objects we’re carrying, but it’s actually around five hundred degrees centigrade at the threshold.  Without your real wings, your shield won’t be big enough to protect these artificial ones.”

“So what, these are gonna melt off my back?”

“Probably not, but I wouldn’t count on them holding up well.  Some of those parts are very heat sensitive.  I suspect once you passed through the portal, you wouldn’t be able to return.”

Dakota looked Phineas dead in the eye.  “But they _would_ get me to the portal?”

 

 

“Thanks for helping me,” Dakota told Phineas and Ferb three days later, after he had finally mastered his wings as much as he was going to.  “And thanks for not trying to talk me out of this.”

Phineas shrugged.  “They’re your wings.  You do what you want with ’em.  For what it’s worth, though, I hope you don’t get stranded on earth.”

Ferb nodded gravely.

“It’s all the same to me,” Dakota replied.  “I wasn’t planning on coming back.”

And with that, he took off.

Gaining altitude was harder than it had been with his natural wings, but it was smoother, too.  Instead of bobbing through the air like a sparrow leaving the nest, he floated like a helium balloon on a warm current that seemed to do the lifting for him.  Occasionally he had to give a little flap, especially as he climbed higher and higher, but for the most part the wings were cooperative.

He rose, closer and closer to the portal, vowing not to take it for granted this time.

On the other side lay Earth.  On the other side lay Cavendish.  On the other side lay concerts and mountain lodges and sex and Christmas.  He began to fly faster, determined not to delay his arrival any longer.

That was when a screw popped loose.

That had to be an extra, right?  Surely brilliant engineers like Phineas and Ferb would build redundancy into the design.

Then a gear fell off, and it felt like Dakota’s left wing was being pulled down by invisible hands.

Then smoke seemed to rise as the metal burned red-hot…

_No_.

He’d waited too long for this.  This was his only hope of ever reaching that portal, and he was not about to squander it because of a few loose parts.  But the fact remained that the wings were failing, he could feel it, and exactly how much longer he had was hard to say.

So with every ounce of desperation and (the angelic equivalent of) adrenaline, he soared, faster and faster, determined to make it before the metal could give way entirely.

A few more flaps, a few harder flaps, almost there, almost there…

He was an arm’s length away when his right wing snapped off altogether, flinging him backward—

But not before the very tip of his sneaker found footing on the edge of the portal’s platform.  He dangled upside-down, gasping for breath, suddenly very grateful that the mechanics of the portal kept nearby angels from gawking.  Carefully, realizing that the slightest misstep could dislodge his shoe from its foothold, he swung upwards until he could grab the platform with his arms, then heaved himself onto the deck, lifting one leg and then sort of rolling himself the rest of the way.

“I made it,” he panted to himself.  “I made it!”

He stared into the portal, watching the essence of the world shimmer across the other side.  Here was his last chance to back down, and no, he was not going to take it.

“Balthazar Cavendish’s house,” he enunciated carefully.  “Take me to Cavendish.”

 

 

The trip to earth was far less pleasant than usual.

Somewhere en route his other wing fell off, and something hot and abrasive seemed to rub his skin raw, leaving a trail like debris off of a meteorite.  It was almost a relief when he finally slammed into the ground with enough force to level the whole neighborhood had he not been in spiritual form.

Almost.

He lay in that spot for hours, well past nightfall, desperately trying to muster the strength to move.  He didn’t see Cavendish come or go, and Cavendish of course would not have seen him anyway.  Finally, the pain subsided enough for Dakota to use his legs.  He stood up.

He trudged through the wall to find Cavendish in the living room, dully scrolling through his phone, periodically scratching an itch or stifling a yawn.  Hildegarde was nowhere in sight.  The man looked bored to tears, and yet… it was him.  It was Cavendish, the same beautiful man Dakota had loved since he first laid eyes on him.

Time to yank him out of this tedium.  Dakota turned corporeal.

Actually, no he didn’t.

He tried again.  And again.  But it was to no avail.

Apparently, even though Dakota’s wings were invisible in his physical form, he still needed them to assume that form in the first place.

“WHY THE HELL DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME THAT!?” Dakota roared.  But of course, neither Cavendish nor anyone else could hear him.

Or could they?

Off in the distance, Dakota could feel the stirrings of something spiritual, something alive, but not something good.  At first it was like a pinprick on his arm, but then it was closing in on him, bathing his raw skin in something acrid, like ammonia.

He turned and ran, back through the wall, across the lawn, across the street, through the next house, into the woods, but without his wings, it was no use.  The thing was gaining on him.

When he felt something like a burning-hot hoof on his shoulder, he knew it was game over.

“All right, fine!  You win!  You can’t make this day any worse than it already is, so you might as well show yourself, shadow-thing!”

It chuckled as Dakota spun around.

At first it was the same shadow as always, orange eyes glowing menacingly, teeth sharp and far too white, clouded in a dark red haze.  “You don’t know who I am?”

Dakota shook his head.

The form shifted before his eyes, becoming more humanoid.  Brown, curly hair.  Round nose.  Broad shoulders.  A very familiar figure indeed, it hovered off the ground, not with the aid of wings, but rather by perching upon a levitating trident.  “I’m _you_ , dumbass!”

Dakota could only blink and stare.

“It’s true!” the thing said in a singsong tone.

“But you’re a demon!”

It grinned widely and cruelly.  “That is also true."


	9. DO Fear the Reaper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, those of you who are still with me after a LONG hiatus! Hopefully the next update will be much sooner. Y'all rock for sticking around.
> 
> Edit: Seems like the formatting turned out kinda wonky the first time around... hope this is better!

 Dakota shook his head, dazed.

  
 “I’m an angel.  You’re a demon.”

  
 “Very good observation!” his doppelganger said in a condescending voice.  “You’re Dakota, I’m Dakota, light side, dark side, all that jazz.”

  
 “But I’m me.  We can’t both be Dakota!”  Dakota frowned.  “This… it’s too confusing.  I gotta call you something else.  Ooh!  I know!  You can be… _Dark_ ota!”

  
_Dark_ ota shrugged.  “Sure… if you’ll be _Duh_ kota, dumbass!”

  
 Dakota swallowed his pride.  There were more important matters at hand.  “Okay but like… how?  How can there be two of us?”

  
  _Dark_ ota leaned back on his trident.  “Yeesh.  I knew you sheltered religious types were naïve, but I didn’t think you were clueless!”  He kicked at a particularly tall blade of grass beneath him.  “You know how when humans die, they split into two people, because everyone has a righteous nature and a wicked nature and they can’t coexist in spiritual form and blah blah blah?”

  
 Dakota nodded slowly.

  
 “Well, what didja think happened to the natures of beings that were spiritual to begin with?”   _Dark_ ota cocked his head sideways.  “There’s two of all of us, one angel, one demon.  You and I were born at the same time, you in heaven, me in hell.  Pretty much the same looks and personality, but I got all the perversion and all the wrath and all the corruption and, apparently, all the brains, while you got wings, a halo, and… honesty?  I guess?”

  
 “Some days I wish I didn’t have that,” Dakota admitted.

  
 “Yeah no shit, it’s like the one perk you get for being a demon!  Lying is fun!”   _Dark_ ota started circling his angelic counterpart.  “Well, that and possessing people is pretty nifty too I guess, but unless you’ve studied your ass off at the Academy of Domination, it’s hard to do if the meatsuit doesn’t cooperate.  It helps to find someone who’s pissed off already, or at least high as balls.”

  
 Dakota swallowed as he recalled the stoned intruder who had almost murdered Hildegarde before abruptly changing his mind.  Was that a demon?  Was that _this_ demon?

  
“I think technically you could do it too if you weren’t all holier-than-thou.”

  
 “We… are holier, though.  Like by definition.”

  
“The point is, you fluffballs have all the fun.  You get to manifest physically and reap souls and oh yeah, freaking rewind time!  I’d kill for that kinda power!” _Dark_ ota smirked.  “In a way… I guess you could say I already have!”

  
Dakota gulped as realization came to matter.  “It’s you.  You’re the one who’s always murdering Cavendish!”  He lunged at _Dark_ ota and pinned him to the ground.  “He’s nothing but a cheap plaything for you to mess with!  You don’t know who he really is!”

  
 “Whoa, information overload!”   _Dark_ ota wriggled out from under Dakota’s weight.  “On the contrary, I think I know him better than you realize.  In some ways you don’t even know him at all.  But we’ll get back to that.  First I gotta tell you it’s more complicated than you make it seem.  I’m not _always_ killing Cavendish.  I’d say less than a third of his demises are me.”

  
“Dude!  That’s still—”

  
“No need to fret your pretty head with the math!  Is it really murder if his sorry ass is just gonna bite it sooner or later anyway?”

  
Dakota grabbed _Dark_ ota by the collar of his burgundy cloak.  “Yes… literally all the humans are ‘gonna bite it sooner or later’!  That doesn’t give you a free pass!”

  
Rolling his eyes, _Dark_ ota continued.  “The point is, he’s been dying a lot longer than I’ve been tempting him.  And that’s a long damn time!  A good ten years longer than you’ve been saving him, at least.”  He picked up his trident and twirled it in his arms.  “Oh yeah, I know all about your little assignment.  How romantic, Cavendish’s knight in shining armor, backing up the time stream over and over because _Duh_ kota’s too stupid to save him right the first time.  Honestly, if I didn’t want him to just die already I might’ve helped you save him just to make it stop.  You know when an angel rewinds time, their demon also gets sucked back?  We don’t get the power, but we still get dragged along on all your little adventures.”

  
“You were there!” Dakota gasped.  “The day of the audition.  You’re the only person who could’ve remembered both versions of that day.  Somehow, Block got a hold of your memories and held them against me!”  Dakota tried to grab _Dark_ ota’s trident but failed.  “But… how?  There’s no way you could’ve snuck into heaven, and Block wouldn’t think to go all the way to hell just to get me in trouble.  And how the hell did you disguise yourself as Savannah?”

  
“Didn’t have to,” the demon taunted.  “You could say I just left him a note.”  And with that, _Dark_ ota reached into the folds of his cape and retrieved his own Orb of Recapitulation.

  
Dakota was about to snatch the Orb from his demonic counterpart, but just then he felt it—his wings, despite being severed, were tingling with phantom pain.  And that pain, phantom or otherwise, could only mean one thing:

  
Cavendish was in trouble, again.

  
Dakota dashed back through the woods, leaving the demon behind.  Somehow, some way, he’d find a way to turn corporeal, to save Cavendish one last time.

  
It needed to be done.

 

 

  
He arrived back at Cavendish’s house just as Cavendish was stumbling into the garage, the telltale smell of alcohol on his breath.

  
“Cavendish?  Cav!”

  
Of course, Dakota’s words went unheard as Cavendish plucked a bright red bicycle off of the rack where it was stored.  “It’s just a bike, ’snot the same as driving,” the human mused as he climbed on.

  
“C’mon, Cav, at least wear a helmet!” Dakota shouted in vain.  “Or some reflective gear!”

  
Cavendish pedaled out of the garage and onto the street.  He wobbled, but true to the old adage, he had not forgotten how to ride.  Perhaps the tingling had just been stress, and the ride posed no real danger to Cavendish?  After all, it was just a bicycle this time, not a vintage car like it had been that Christmas.

  
Nevertheless, Cavendish was riding a bike drunk, after dark, with no protective wear, while the roads still retained patches of black ice from recent wintery weather.

  
Dakota jogged to keep up, finding the task much more demanding without his wings.  “Cavendish!  Hey, Cavendish!  Why don’t you give up on biking for the night and try again tomorrow?”  Again, his words landed on deaf ears.

  
There was a dip in the road, and Cavendish sped down the slope.

  
There was an intersection at the bottom of the hill, and Cavendish turned right.

There was a frozen puddle in the side street, and Cavendish hit it at top speed.

There was a tree in the ravine to the side of the road, and Cavendish was slammed head-first against it after being thrown from the bike.

There was no guardian angel in sight, and Cavendish landed about ten feet below with a sickening _thud_.

“Call 911!” Dakota cried.  “You have your phone, call an ambulance before you pass out!”

Cavendish’s eyes closed.

“Please!”

Briefly, very briefly, Dakota could feel a surge of determination.  He was moving Cavendish’s thumb—no, Cavendish was moving his own thumb, and dialing the number.

“What is the nature of your emergency?” the dispatcher asked, but Cavendish couldn’t talk.

And all Dakota could do was sit and wait.

 

It had been almost ten minutes, and the ambulance still hadn’t arrived.  Did EMS know where Cavendish was?  Couldn’t they track the signal from his phone?

“Hey, you can’t pin this one on me!”

Dakota whirled around.   _Dark_ ota was hovering on his trident, grinning maliciously.  Dakota swung his fist, although he wasn’t really aiming and the demon easily dodged.  “Get.  The hell.  Away from him!”

“Ha.  Not like I can tempt him to do anything while he’s unconscious!  Although the fact that you managed to make him dial 911 tells me he might still be pretty suggestible.”

“Don’t you dare possess him!” Dakota cried.

The evil spirit laughed.  “Relax!  It’s like I told you, possession is an art, one I haven’t studied in-depth nearly enough.  Maybe I should, though.  It’d be nice to interact with the physical world for once.”

“Wait a sec.”  In spite of his rage, a spark of confusion pushed Dakota to ask his question.  “How the hell do you keep killing Cavendish if you don’t interact with the physical world?”

“I don’t need to!  Think about it, _Duh_ kota, what does ‘temptation’ even mean?”

“Is this a trick question?”  Dakota turned away.  “It’s… when you want to do something you shouldn’t.”

“Yes, but where does that ‘want’ come from?  Here’s a hint—it’s not from us.”  The demon grabbed the angel by the chin and forced him to turn his head.  “It was always in the person—the potential for every kind of sin, from sloth to lust to gluttony, is embedded within the human psyche.  Probably the mortal psyche in general.  But mortals just aren’t clever enough to unlock these desires on their own.  That’s where we come in.”   _Dark_ ota got off his trident.  “We can’t physically interact with people unless we possess them, and like I said, that’s hard as shit.  Besides, the more fully a person is possessed, the less their actions count against them.  Anyway, the humans can’t even see or hear us.  But what we can do is make them think.”  He swung the trident around him haphazardly.  “All you have to do is plant the right idea in someone’s mind, and it will be so tantalizing that they can’t resist acting on it.  I told Cavendish to prove himself on a deadly ski slope, and his pride made him do it.  I used that same pride to make his friend show off by lending him the car when he was inebriated, and Cavendish’s own gluttony to inebriate him in the first place.”

“So what about the train incident?” Dakota asked in spite of himself.  “How’d you make him do that?”

_Dark_ ota laughed.  “Oh, that one was priceless!  That was some combination of envy and lust.”

“Lust for… the truth?”

“Lust for _you_ , dumbass!  Once he had it in his head that all he had to do to summon you was try to kill himself, he threw himself right in front of that train, no questions asked!”  The demon planted his trident in the ground, prongs down, and leaned against it.  “At first I hated it when you took over Cavendish duty, because unlike the other angels, who’d haul ass away as soon as they were done, you stuck around.  You actually cared about him, and that made my job harder!  But then when I realized he cared about you too, I thought I could use that against him.  And I could… for a while.”  His face contorted into a scowl, and Dakota felt a paradoxically cold fire engulf them both, much like the distress Dakota had always sensed when the demon was around.  “Then you had to go and work your whole angel-magic-mojo on him, and I could feel it!”

“Feel what, exactly?”

“You were making him _good_!  And that, buster, is my whole issue with you.  See, I’m like you.  I _am_ you.  And you can’t stop mooning and spooning over Cavendish, so what do you think I’ve been dealing with all these years?”   _Dark_ ota whistled.  “That man is _hot_!  So much so that I always figured I could finally get a piece of that action after he died and went to hell—it might take a few centuries of Stockholm syndrome for him to come around, but eventually he’d have to give in.  Of course, to bang him, I needed enough of him down there to actually bang.  And as long as nobody cared about him, his evil soul was so strong that I had nothing to worry about.”

“Hold it, hold it!”  Dakota stepped backward.  “Cavendish was not evil before I came along!  I mean, he had his bad points like anyone, but—”

“It’s like they say… love really is blind…” _Dark_ ota mused.  “Then again, you haven’t known him as long as I have.”  He reached into his cloak and once again produced the Orb of Recapitulation.  “I could fill you in.  Come on.  Earlier you were begging me to show you.”

Dakota didn’t reach for the Orb, but he didn’t back away, either.  Finally he closed his eyes and covered his face.

“Where the hell is that damn ambulance?”

 

 

  
By the time the ambulance (plus a police car and a firetruck, since the emergency was never specified) did arrive, _Dark_ ota was gone, seemingly bored by Dakota’s deliberate inattentiveness.  Nevertheless, Dakota knew that he knew that he hadn’t seen the last of his doppelganger.

It was a long ride to the hospital.  Dakota watched bleakly while EMTs did their best to keep Cavendish stable.  Aside from head trauma and suspected spinal damage, both arms were broken, there appeared to be some sort of heavy internal bleeding, and lying in the marshy swale for nearly half an hour had left him hypothermic.  Dakota tried numerous times, uselessly, to back up the time stream, but that ability had been stripped along with his wings.

Modern medicine being what it was, the ER was able to operate on Cavendish fairly quickly.  To his relief, Dakota didn’t see any psychopomps on the floor, and within a few hours Cavendish was awake, albeit very groggy.  Dakota would have given anything to hold Cavendish then, to kiss his face, to promise not to leave his side.

(But also to inquire about Cavendish’s past.  Whatever was in _Dark_ ota’s orb, there was no need to accept that information from a literal demon.  Surely Cavendish would be honest with Dakota if he just asked… right?)

Instead, Hildegarde barged in, blubbering about some fight they had apparently had and “making him leave” and how the whole thing was her fault.  It was an uncharitable thought, but Dakota wondered if some demon had planted seeds to make her feel especially guilty.

Dammit, she still loved him.  Dakota swallowed; did Cavendish still love her back?  By the papers he’d peeked at from the hospital’s records, she was legally still his wife.  Dakota wished, fiercely, that he could know what exactly had transpired in the months he’d been gone… and also in the years before he met Cavendish.

No.  No, he mustn’t let _Dark_ ota’s taunts get to him.  Cavendish was, at the end of the day, a decent human being, a decent human being who was in massive pain and who had no idea that the angel he had once loved was standing in his room.

Dakota slumped onto the floor.  He wished Cavendish’s actual guardian would show up and rewind this timeline (and in the process, make Dakota forget everything about the accident and _Dark_ ota and Orbs of Recapitulation).  But guardians were meant to stop people from dying prematurely, that was it.  They weren’t meant to stop people’s lives from sucking while they were still living them.

What would’ve happened if Cavendish hadn’t dialed emergency services?  Was he really doing that under Dakota’s influence, or did _Dark_ ota make that up just to provoke him?  If Dakota had hung back, would Cavendish have died?  And if he died, would his current guardian have stopped this accident from happening altogether?  Had Dakota ruined his former charge’s life by saving it?

“I’m sorry, Cavendish,” Dakota said as invisible tears gushed from his eyes.  “I’m sorry for everything.”

 

 

  
For the next few days while Cavendish recovered, Dakota kept vigil, but there was no sign of _Dark_ ota or any other demon, for that matter.  This was good; the last thing Cavendish needed right now was to have his head filled with alluring-but-destructive ideas.

Enough had been destroyed already.

Luckily, the hospital had salvaged Cavendish’s brain from any permanent damage.  His broken bones were set.  Thanks to modern synthetic blood substitute, he hadn’t needed a transfusion to replace the volume lost from his injuries.  And although he’d contracted an infection from lying in the mud, it was nothing antibiotics couldn’t quickly clear up.  But there was one thing the physicians hadn’t been able to fix, despite running numerous tests and scans and talking hastily in jargon that even Dakota didn’t know.

Cavendish’s limbs didn’t work.

It wasn’t just the broken bones.  Somewhere in the wake of his accident, he’d sustained damage to the spinal cord that left him largely paralyzed.  He only had about thirty percent control over his left hand, and his right hand and legs didn’t work at all.  Some of that was just the trauma, but when Cavendish had asked about recovering dexterity in his hands (the pianist’s legs were less of a priority), the doctor had candidly admitted that the best they would be able to do was probably around sixty percent for the left hand and twenty percent for the right.

There was talk of prosthetics—many patients had testimonials brimming with optimism about their regained abilities to make dinner, get dressed, pet their dogs, and hug their children.  Indeed, most of them seemed to have more or less returned to their life before amputation.  There was just one problem: Not a single patient’s testimonial was written by a musician.  Some things were just too delicate to program into a robot.  Also, there was the fact that installing cybernetic limbs required amputation of the originals, and Cavendish wasn’t ready to commit to that.

Dakota knew from experience how horrifying a severed limb could be.

 

 

  
Two weeks after Cavendish was discharged, he once again sat in front of a piano, the simple upright in his and Hildegarde’s living room.

Dakota watched helplessly as Cavendish cringed with every key he pressed.  Simply moving his hands took all of his focus; supplying the life into the music—that spark of his soul—was entirely unmanageable.

To his credit, though, he didn’t give up right away.  Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes to concentrate, his hands slowly moved into position and awkwardly plunked out a tune.  His timing was way off, and some of the notes were played so lightly Dakota suspected they were only audible to his angelic ears, but there was something recognizable as music, still.

Dakota swallowed as he realized which composition Cavendish was attempting to play.

“You don’t have to jump into ‘The Shell Rebuilt’ right away,” Dakota whispered futilely.  “Start with… I don’t know, lullabies or something?”  But even he knew that Cavendish’s brilliance was useless with no control over his fingers, and control wasn’t something he could just re-learn.  Simple children’s tunes were no easier than complex symphonies.

Cavendish pulled back, groaned, then started again.  And again.

“Dammit!” the man yelped as his pinkie involuntarily slipped onto the adjacent white key and his ring finger failed to play its assigned note.  He kept restarting, but each attempt only frustrated him more and more.

Finally, he withdrew the wooden cover from above the keyboard and slid it into place, sealing away the ebony and ivory for the time being.  Dakota thought he might leave and take a nap or eat or something, but instead Cavendish sat very still, staring blankly at the cover, until he leaned over and rested his head on top.  Tears rolled down his face, and he began to sob.

This lasted for hours, and all Dakota could do was watch.

 

 

  
“Hon—I mean, Balthazar!” Hildegarde corrected herself abruptly.  “Do you need any help with your medication?”

“No thank you, I can manage myself,” Cavendish insisted, but Dakota knew from watching the man night after night that it would be a troublesome affair just to open the bottles.  Still, he couldn’t blame the man for wanting privacy.  Hildegarde was in and out of his room a lot these days.

At least he had his own wheelchair-accessible room, his own bed, apart from his sham “wife.”  Had they begun the paperwork for the divorce prior to the accident?   _Was_ it a divorce, or an annulment?  Would the latter also nullify the inheritance even though the couple had long since invested or donated it?  What were the laws in this state?  Dakota was certainly no attorney, but he could understand why the proceedings had taken a backseat to Cavendish’s current medical situation.  Thanks to the painkillers, the man was constantly exhausted, and physical therapy could be time-consuming and, frankly, frustrating.  There simply wasn’t energy to expend.

Still… why were they still together when the accident took place?

Dakota had to remind himself that whatever the reason, it was still for the best that Cavendish wasn’t alone.  Just as it had been Hildegarde who comforted Cavendish after his mother’s death, so it was she who comforted him now.  Whether because of the need to stay quiet, a limited understanding of human institutions, or being severed from all contact with mortals, Dakota had never really been there for Cavendish.  Not when it counted most.

Some guardian angel.

 

 

  
The return of _Dark_ ota was only surprising in that it didn’t happen sooner.

“You’re never gonna give me my turn, are you?” his voice whined as Dakota paced the room at three in the morning.

“You don’t get a turn!”  Dakota didn’t even turn to face the demon.  “Besides, what are you gonna do?  He’s asleep, and when he wakes up, he won’t exactly be in much condition to act on your vices!”

“Au contraire, sleep can be the best time to tempt someone!”   _Dark_ ota made a beeline for the bed, but Dakota yanked him back.  “If a person in a dream thinks it’s all real, he can act under the impression that his choices affect others.  Which means that if he commits genocide or boils panda bears alive or steals a homeless guy’s tent, those decisions are going to eat at his soul just as much as if he’d made them while awake.”

Dakota grabbed _Dark_ ota’s arm from where it reached for Cavendish’s head.  “Dude, that’s not even fair!  He’s not conscious!”

“When he enters the REM stage of his sleep cycle, he’ll think he is.”

“But in a dream your brain isn’t really thinking about consequences!  It just… goes along with whatever pops up.”

“The same could be said for a brain on drugs or alcohol.  It’s no excuse.”   _Dark_ ota chuckled.  “Who’d’a thunk I’d be the one lecturing you on morality?”  But the demon shrugged and pulled back.  “It’s not like he doesn’t sin enough in real life.  Dude’s got the cheating thing nailed!”

Despite his attempt to stay guarded, Dakota blurted out, “The hell are you talking about?”

“Yeesh, for someone who’s been pining over the guy for weeks now, you’d think you’d’ve paid attention to his actions.”

“I… I have!  He’s been doing physical therapy, sleeping, trying to re-learn piano, and surfing the web with some kind of specialized keyboard.”  That really was the scope of it.

“He was on his tablet, but did you ever notice what he was doing on it?”

“I… I heard him tell Hildegarde he was playing games.”  Dakota swallowed.

“Ah, yes, dearest Hildegarde!”   _Dark_ ota snorted.  “Hildegarde, who can’t sleep, who’s sitting in her own room going through her wedding stuff as we speak!  Her tiara, her dress, her albums… you can go check if you don’t believe me!  All of it’s made-up, of course, but shit does she wish it were real!  And Cavendish has done nothing but feed into her delusion that if she’s perfectly loyal and tender and watches over him in his time of need, he’ll fall back in love with her and they’ll be married for real and live happily ever after.”   _Dark_ ota folded his hands next to his head and batted his eyelashes.

“Well… that’s Hildegarde’s problem though, not Cav’s…” Dakota argued.  “He _told_ her it wasn’t real.”

“Nothing but transparency, I see.  Did he _tell_ her he was messaging his old flame from college and browsing hookup sites when he said he was just playing Tetris?  Because he sure as hell never told you!”

“It’s not my business!  Or Hildegarde’s!” Dakota defended.

“The point is, he’s playing her.  Like he played you.  It’s what he does.”

“Quit trying to screw with my head!  Or his!  Just leave us alone!” Dakota barked at the demon.

“Is that really what you want?  Because I could show you some more.”

Dakota groaned in defeat.  “Fine.  Give me the Orb.”

  
_Cavendish was young, perhaps in his late teens, and fighting back tears.  Next to him on the table sat a rejection letter—the boy had applied to Julliard._

“This is like a week after I got him.  Didn’t think much at first,” _Dark_ ota noted.

“So he felt crappy after he got rejected.  It’s not like he beat up the guy who sent him the letter!”

“Keep watching!”

_The scene morphed.  Mrs. Cavendish spoke with the Dean of Admissions.  Dakota couldn’t hear the conversation, but some documents were exchanged, and given Mrs. Cavendish’s calm and collected demeanor, she must be in her element—money and bribery._

“Okay, helicopter parents suck, but that wasn’t on him!”

“I said, _keep watching_!”

_Young Cavendish held a letter to his chest—this time, one of acceptance—beaming with pride.  He leafed through the rest of the mail until he found another one from Julliard—addressed to his mother.  He paused and looked around.  Then, carefully, he peeled the envelope open in such a way as to prevent the glue from ripping one speck of paper from the flap._

_There it was—“Dear Mrs. Cavendish, we thank you profusely for your generous donation and support of Julliard School and our vision.  We are impressed by your family’s commitment to the performing arts and, after conference amongst the administrators, have reconsidered your son’s eligibility for admission.  As such—”_

_Cavendish put the letter back in the envelope, dug through a drawer until he found a glue stick, and re-sealed it.  He didn’t look angry, or embarrassed; on the contrary, he looked as jubilant as ever._

_It didn’t bother him._

_The scene shifted, to one of Cavendish and a schoolmate sitting side-by-side after class.  Both wore the same school uniform, but where Cavendish’s shirt and slacks were clean, pressed, and tailored, the other boy’s jacket seemed just a tiny bit tight in the shoulders, his pants were slightly wrinkled, and a small yellow stain peaked just around the corner of a fraying necktie.  The boy himself stared out into space, seemingly unaware that school had let out._

“Oh, wait wait wait, lemme turn on the volume!” Darkota suggested eagerly, and just like that, the scene had dialogue.

_“–revoked my scholarship_ and _my acceptance,” the boy lamented.  “I have no idea why, my grades haven’t slipped or anything, but apparently they found a more ‘qualified’ applicant.  Guess there wasn’t space for both of us.”_

_If Cavendish made the connection, his face didn’t betray it.  He just offered a small, sad, sympathetic smile before packing up his things and leaving the classroom._

_Dark_ ota stared at Dakota, waiting intently for a response.

“Well, but… he was just a kid,” Dakota answered.  “That was then.  He’s learned tons since then.”

“Fine.  Let’s bop to six months before you met him.”

_Cavendish sat at his desk, doing boring paperwork as usual.  Dakota wouldn’t have known whether he was doing anything unethical or not, because he could barely understand the jargon._

_That was when a news article pinged on his computer screen, and Cavendish dropped everything else to investigate.  Evidently, a blight had claimed the staple crop of some country along the Mediterranean, and the ensuing famine and economic upheaval had left the nation politically unstable.  Millions were unemployed, thousands were hungry, and hundreds rioted in the streets—bombing houses and schools and hospitals as they went.  All were desperate._

_Cavendish promptly began to draft a letter._

_Fast-forward to a month later, and Mrs. Cavendish was on the news, hailed as a great humanitarian for converting the withered fields to pistachio plantations and providing the populace with food and homes—which they could pay for with ten years’ indentured service to her corporation.  In effect, she had gained free labor for the price of a few prefabricated apartment complexes and shipments of rice and beans._

_A letter on Cavendish’s desk thanked him for bringing the matter to his mother’s attention, and was accompanied by a decent-sized check._

“Let me guess,” _Dark_ ota said as Dakota’s face fell.  “He made you think all this was his mom’s idea.  He blamed her for everything, even after she died.”

“Don’t spin this!”

“He’s the one who spun it!  Spinning stuff is his MO!  I have more, so many more!”

And he did.  Dozens of similar deals popped up, not necessarily in chronological order.  To be fair, they weren’t all for Mrs. Cavendish—Gregory Cavendish garnered his share of support in the form of bogus political propaganda.  Balthazar would find obscure factoids from all over the internet and repackage them so that, without technically saying anything untrue, Gregory looked like the model candidate and his opponent looked like trash.  And every time, Balthazar was rewarded with some new proposed tax break or educational legislation that just so happened to benefit him.

Cavendish’s personal life was no less depraved.  The Christmas kiss that had led to Hildegarde dumping Cavendish had not been, as Dakota was led to believe, a moment of indiscretion, but rather a deliberate setup Cavendish had been anticipating for days; nor was it the only instance that he had been unfaithful to Hildegarde.  At times, he had even cheated on the men he had dated before her, blowing out of the water the excuse of an incompatible orientation.

All of this was not to mention the numerous times Cavendish had done wrong simply by failing to do right.  All those times he pretended not to see a beggar, every time he ignored a friend seeking comfort, every charity he had cut donations to, rolled out in front of Dakota, each inaction exposed in broad daylight.  Dakota wanted to argue against equating righteous negligence with unrighteous action, but he was so tired by this point.

Hour after hour of observing Cavendish’s misdeeds had worn Dakota down.

So worn down, in fact, that he hadn’t noticed when Cavendish himself woke up, climbed into his chair, and left the room.

 

 

  
“Where’d he go?” Dakota demanded as he tore through the house.  There was no sign anywhere of either Cavendish or Hildegarde anywhere.  “He must’ve left!”

“No shit, Sherlock.”   _Dark_ ota rolled his eyes.

“Cavendish hasn’t left his house in weeks!” Dakota pointed out.  “He can’t be at the Conservatory, and I’m pretty sure the Orchestra’s out too, and the physical therapist holds sessions at home.”

“I could take you to him,” the demon offered.  “But you might not like what you see.”

Dakota cringed, but climbed onto the back of Darkota’s trident anyway, and they zoomed off.

“It’s not like he’s… transgressing, or whatever,” Dakota dared to bring up.  “I noticed that none of the memories you showed me happened recently.  They were all before I started guarding him, or at least before he really acknowledged that I was guarding him,” he said with more conviction.

“Not all of them,” _Dark_ ota corrected as they zoomed outside and down the street.  “A few were from after you had your wings cut.  But that’s exactly why I needed that to happen.”

“Because you want him to go to hell.  And… and I was making him a better person!”

“I’d tell you not to flatter yourself, but damn you, you were.  Luckily, it turns out the effect’s only temporary.  It probably shouldn’t really count at all, since he was only on his best behavior so he could get in your pants.  And it worked, _Slut_ -kota!”

“Okay, one, that was really really forced,” Dakota shot back.  “And two, if that were true you wouldn’t feel the need to corrupt him all over again!  You’d just leave him the way he was until he died.”

“I could,” _Dark_ ota mused.  “Hence why I’ve been trying to get him to kill himself, or get someone else to kill him.  I’m sure he’s evil enough to get a solid presence in H-E-double-hockey-sticks!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“If you’d let me kill him, we could test that theory!  But since you’re not down for that… I think what I’ve got to show you might sway your certainty.  We’re here!”

They had just flown into a doctor’s office.

 

 

  
It wasn’t just any doctor, either.

“Dr. Easton is the world’s foremost expert on autologous stem cell therapies,” Hildegarde told Cavendish excitedly.  “And she specializes in neuron regeneration.”

Gregory Cavendish, who was surprisingly also present for this meeting, nodded.  “Luckily, she’s interested in transferring to our own State University’s bioengineering department in the near future,” he explained.  “And that makes you a perfect candidate for one of her trials.”

“Just like that?” Cavendish asked, astounded.  “So you can grow back the nerves I lost?”  He held up his hand and spread his fingers the best he could.

“Yes and no,” Dr. Easton explained.  “I have no doubt that I’ll be able to replicate your spinal nerves, and since we’ll be using your own stem cells, with your own DNA, there’s no risk of immune rejection.  But the human hand is intricate, given the fine motor tasks it must accomplish—especially in a pianist such as yourself.  If the damage isn’t strictly spinal in nature—which frankly, I suspect it isn’t—then our best recourse is a transplant.  Fortunately, we have a specialist and a donor lined up already.”

_Dark_ ota poked Dakota’s cheek.  “Fun fact about the donor!  She’s alive, and she flat-out _sold_ her hands to Hildegarde!”

“What?  That’s crazy!”

“Her little brother needs an operation.  An _expensive_ operation.  Only one way to pay for it.”   _Dark_ ota grinned.  “Oh, she’s a great match, no need to worry about that.  Plus, she won some kind of videogame contest that proved her hands are very agile.  Cav will be back to his normal, corrupt self in no time.”

“You can’t hold this against him!  He doesn’t know all that!”

“He’ll find out before the operation.  And by that point, he won’t care.  Him having hands that make him famous is more important than some poor gamer chick having hands at all.  He’ll convince himself he’s doing her a favor so he can sleep at night.  Look, he’s already reading the brochure.”

Sure enough, Dr. Easton had handed Cavendish a pamphlet titled _Limb Transplantation Techniques: Advantages of Living over Deceased Donors_.  Dakota knew medical ethics had become laxer within the last fifty years or so, but he hadn’t known it had come to this.  Then again, he was hardly even an angel at all anymore, so who was he to judge?

Upon Cavendish opening his mouth, Dakota cringed in anticipation of what might come out, but Cavendish’s question was morally quite tame.  “So it’s… easier to transplant someone else’s hand than to re-grown my own?”

“By several orders of magnitude,” Dr. Easton assured him.  “The latter hasn’t even been done before.”

“But you can regrow my spinal cord?”

“Well… yes.  Since that involves the Central Nervous System, it’s been a much higher priority in terms of research funding.  Numerous tests on animal subjects have proven successful, and this past fall, we had two successful human trials.  It’s very promising technology, and I know this sounds premature, but I stand by it.”

“Dr. Easton’s a huge name in research,” Gregory Cavendish stressed.  “Prior to this, she’s made headlines with her breakthroughs in treating fetal anencephaly.  Her protocol has saved nearly two-thirds of the babies who received it.”

Cavendish looked at the floor.  “Two-thirds, you say?”

“I know it still sounds like a gamble, but the worst that can happen to you is it just not working,” Hildegarde said.  “You aren’t going to die or anything, because you aren’t dying now.”

“I believe you,” Cavendish said.  “Entirely.  My problem isn’t the children who perished.  It’s the ones who survived.”  He looked his father dead in the eye.  “Tell me the truth—was Dr. Easton planning to transfer to our university before my accident?”

Gregory Cavendish blushed slightly.  “I’m… sorry, what do you mean?”

“I think you know exactly what I mean.”  He turned to Dr. Easton.  “I don’t know what liberties my father has taken as governor, or how free you are to discuss his arrangement, but rest assured I give you the benefit of the doubt in having accepted his offer.”

“What offer?  Balthazar, baby, please don’t be paranoid!” Hildegarde begged, but Gregory Cavendish’s uneasy swallow told Dakota—and likely everyone else in the room—that his son’s accusation was far from baseless.

“Dr. Easton,” Cavendish continued.  “What was your vision to apply your regenerative experiments before you declared an interest in transferring?”

“Prague,” she admitted.  “There’s a facility there where severely quadriplegic veterans of World War V go for treatment.  None can move their limbs at all, most cannot breathe unassisted, and some are comatose.”

Gregory Cavendish shot her a dark look from across the room, although fortunately for him Balthazar’s and Hildegarde’s backs were turned.

“It sounds to me,” Cavendish replied, “that they would make ideal candidates for your next trials.  I can wait until your protocol becomes widely available.”

“My research there would do little to help your case,” Dr. Easton warned.  “My intent was to tailor the protocol to your specific injuries, which are simply of a different nature from the complete severance faced by patients in Prague.”

Cavendish nodded gravely.  “I reiterate, I can wait until your protocol becomes widely available.  Even if it isn’t suited for patients like me right away.”

“That could take many years, perhaps even many decades.”

“Balthazar, think about the opportunity you’re passing up!”  Hildegarde began pacing the room.  “You’re permanently putting your life on hold, crippling your music career, and all because…”

“And all because I know that I am one person, who made one mistake, for which I will not make many people pay the price,” Cavendish said simply.  Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he held his ground.  “I am not more deserving of treatment simply because of my money”—he looked at Hildegarde—“or because of my family’s political power”—he looked at his father—“even though you both mean well, and I appreciate it tremendously.  Dr. Easton has more important studies to conduct, plain and simple.”  He turned his wheelchair around to leave, but winced as he did so.

“You’re in pain!” Hildegarde objected.

“The physical pain will pass.  The pain of being unable to continue my art might pass, or it might not.  But I am prepared to face the reality if it does not.”

“So you’re prepared to be in pain for the rest of your life?” she asked.

“Should that be the case, it will serve as a reminder of the musician I once was.  Only by having played beautiful music in the first place will I be able to miss it so.  And for the times I played the beautiful music… I am content.”

With that, he wheeled out of the room.

_Dark_ ota’s jaw dropped open.

“I told you!”  Dakota did his best to keep smugness out of his voice, because he knew it was inappropriate, but he was just so proud of his human.  “And he didn’t even need to know about the donor to decide it was wrong.”  Here was proof positive that, whatever immorality the man might have exhibited in the past, he had learned something, and changed.

Smoke rose from _Dark_ ota’s shoulders as he clenched his trident in his palms, as though he were trying his utmost not to explode into a shadowy fury.  Dakota could feel the demon’s oppressive presence fanning outward in waves, but instead of the persistent dread the angel usually felt in response to his counterpart’s outbursts, he felt an odd semblance of pity… like nothing _Dark_ ota could say or do could quash Cavendish’s moral victory.

Except suddenly, the demon’s wrath dissipated.

“Transplants,” he mused cryptically.  “I wonder…”

He hopped on his trident and zoomed away.

 

 

  
That night, after Cavendish took his medication and climbed into bed, he stared up—not at the ceiling, but at some imaginary, far-away thing in the sky beyond.  He sighed.

“Dakota… I don’t know if you can hear me, or if, somehow, you know what happened to me today,” he said aloud.

“Not that you’re gonna hear this, but I know,” Dakota said as he climbed into bed next to the man.  At least without a physical form, he couldn’t hurt the human if he accidentally bumped him.

“I gave up what might be my only chance at ever playing the piano again,” Cavendish elaborated.  “At least, my only chance this side of heaven.  But I want you to know how hard it was and how much I wanted to go through with it.  If there is any possibility that you might hear me, I would love to play music for you, again and again.  You’ve inspired the song in my heart, even if I cannot demonstrate it in any way.  I… I miss you, dear one.”

“I miss you too!” Dakota answered candidly, but something felt off about his reply, as though he’d heard his own voice echo back from out in the hall.

Cavendish’s head jerked upwards.

Wait.

Had he heard the angel, somehow?  Dakota’s heart raced with the faint glimmer of hope.

But then he heard his own voice again, and this time, he hadn’t said a word.

“That’s why I came back!”

Dakota’s demonic double entered the room.

 

 

  
Dakota didn’t know how it was possible.  Demons couldn’t assume physical form.

But it was _Dark_ ota, sprinting towards Cavendish’s bed, completely intangible to Dakota’s attempt to intervene.  Only when the demon’s back was turned could Dakota discern a possible explanation.

There were two stitch marks on _Dark_ ota’s back, exactly where his wings would be if he were an angel.  And when Dakota laid his hand on top of them, he felt a jolt of energy, of beauty, of familiarity.

No.  It wasn’t possible.

“You came back!” Cavendish cried, eyes misty with joyful tears.  “What did they do to you?  Where did they take you?  How did they keep you away?  Oh, Dakota, it’s really you!”

“No!  That’s not me!” Dakota cried helplessly.

“There’s an explanation for all of that,” _Dark_ ota said calmly.  “But that’s not what matters.  What matters is that we’re together again.”  And with that, he leaned over and kissed Cavendish hungrily, as though he meant to devour the man right then and there.  Cavendish moaned in pleasure, not the slightest bit aware of any difference.

“Quite right,” Cavendish concurred.  “All my questions can wait.”

“Very true.  Especially when I tell you what I learned while I was… gone.  You might be able to play music for me after all.”

Naturally, Cavendish was all ears.  “Do tell!”

“You see, a _winged_ angel has the ability to remove a human soul from the body.  I once thought this was only possible at death, but as it turns out, it was an ability _I had all along_!”  The demon looked the angel right in the eye, taunting him as he dragged out the words.  “Your soul isn’t hindered by physical ailments.  There’s just one catch—I need you to cooperate for this to work.  What do you say?”

Cavendish’s eyes widened.  “So… my body will just lie here soulless until I come back?  I… I _can_ come back, right?  This doesn’t boil down to suicide?”

“Of course you can come back!” the imposter assured him.  “You’ll just come with me for a few hours, we can hang out, maybe give you a little taste of _this_ in spirit form.”  He struck a sexy pose.

“That sounds… amazing.  I’ve felt trapped in this body for weeks now.  I’d like to be free.”

“Then let’s do this!”   _Dark_ ota held out a hand, which Cavendish accepted.

“No, Cav!  Please, Cav!  You have to know he’s not—”

But _Dark_ ota was converting back to spiritual form, yanking on Cavendish’s soul as he did so, until they were two spirits hovering over the bed.

And as suspected, _Dark_ ota’s incorporeal body now sported the wings that Dakota had been missing for some time.

“Cavendish!  Can you hear me now?” Dakota called, but Cavendish was so enraptured by the out-of-body experience that he didn’t seem to hear anything at all, and his gaze was transfixed on the spirit before him, ignoring everything else in the room.

“Follow me!” _Dark_ ota opened a doorway, seemingly out of thin air, that glowed orange and smelled of sulfur.  Somehow, this didn’t bother Cavendish as he eagerly followed _Dark_ ota’s lead.

Then they were gone.

And the door was closing behind them.

“You can’t do this!” Dakota cried, and with one last burst of energy, he darted through the sliver of an opening to the abyss.


End file.
